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ST. 


JOHN'S  EVE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


From  “ Evenings  at  the  Farm”  and  “ St.  Petersburg  Stories 


BY 

NIKOLAI  VASILIEVITCH  GOGOL 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN  BY 

ISABEL  F.  HAPGOOD 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 

13  Astor  Place 


Copyright,  1886, 

By  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO 


ELECTROTVTED  AND  PRINTED 
BY  RAND,  AVERY,  AND  COMPANY, 


BOSTON, 


13 

■'  $  5 

i__  lr\&l 


v 


CONTENTS. 


K 

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X 

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PAGE 

INTRODUCTION . 5 

ST.  JOHN’S  EVE.  RELATED  BY  THE  SACRISTAN 

OF  THE  DIKANKA  CHURCH . t; 

ST.  JOHN’S  EVE . 23 

» 

C  OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 53 

THE  TALE  OF  HOW  IVAN  IVANOVITCH  QUAR¬ 
RELLED  WITH  IVAN  NIKIFOROVITCH  .  .  101 

THE  PORTRAIT . 203 

THE  CLOAK . 317 


INTRODUCTION. 


“What  unheard-of  thing  is  this  ?  'Evenings 
at  a  Farmhouse  near  Dikanka  !  ’ 1  What  sort  of 
evenings  are  these  ?  And  some  bee-farmer  has 
sprung  forth  into  prominence  !  Glory  to  God  ! 
have  not  geese  enough  already  had  courage  to 
take  to  quills,  and  bring  forth  scrappy  non¬ 
sense  on  paper  ?  have  not  plenty  of  people  of 
every  calling,  and  even  the  rabble,  already 
smeared  their  fingers  with  ink?  And  now  the 
bee-farmer  has  been  seized  with  a  freak  to  fol¬ 
low  the  others  !  Truth  to  tell,  there’s  so  much 
printed  paper  about,  that  you  can’t  very  readily 
find  things  to  wrap  up  in  it.” 

1  Although  but  three  of  these  selected  tales  belong  to  the  famous 
series  known  as  e:  Evenings  at  a  Farmhouse  near  Dikanka  ”  (which 
includes  the  sequel,  “  Mirgorod  ”),  the  Introduction  is  herewith  given, 
for  the  proper  understanding  of  the  title  as  referred  to  in  this  volume, 
and  in  those  which  will  succeed  it. 


5 


6 


INTR  OB  UC  TION. 


My  informant  has  heard  these  speeches, 
heard  them  a  month  ago  !  that  is,  I  say,  that, 
when  our  brother  the  farmer  thrusts  his  nose 
out  into  the  great  world,  then — good  Heavens!* 
—  it’s  all  the  same  how  it  comes  about :  some¬ 
times  you  enter  the  chamber  of  a  great  lord ; 
all  surround  you,  and  begin  to  make  a  fool  of 
you  (that  would  be  nothing,  if  it  were  only  the 
upper  servants ;  no,  it  is  some  ragged  little 
boy,  see — a  good-for-nothing,  who  lounges  in 
the  back  yard,  and  there  he’ll  stick),  and  they 
begin  to  stamp  on  all  sides:  “ Where  are  you 
going?  Where?  Why?  Get  along,  muzhik, 
step  along  !  ”  —  I  will  tell  you  —  but  why 
speak  ?  It’s  a  great  deal  easier  for  me  to 
go  twice  a  year  to  Mirgorod,  where  it’s  five 
years  since  either  the  district  judge  or  the 
reverend  priest  has  seen  me,  than  show  my¬ 
self  in  that  great-  world ;  but  I  have  shown 
myself  —  weep,  or  not,  but  answer. 

We,  beloved  readers,  without  wrath  be  it 
said  (and  perhaps  you  will  be  angry  because  a 
bee-farmer  addresses  you  unceremoniously,  as 
though  you  were  his  relative  or  his  gossip),  we 
at  the  farm  have  long  held  this  practice :  as 


INTRODUCTION, 


7 


soon  as  the  labors  of "  the  field  ar<f refinished, 
the  muzhik  crawls  upon  his  oven  to  spend  the 
whole  winter,  and  our  brother  hides  his  bees  in 
a  dark  cellar  ;  when  you  no  longer  behold  a 
stork  in  the  air,  nor  a  pear  upon  the  tree,  then, 
as  soon  as  evening  falls,  a  little  light  is  sure  to 
be  burning  somewhere  at  the  end  of  the  street, 
laughter  and  songs  are  audible  afar,  the  bala¬ 
laika1  tinkles,  and  sometimes  a  fiddle;  talking, 
uproar  .  .  .  This  is  our  vetchernitza .2  They, 
you  will  please  to  observe,  resemble  your  balls  ; 
only  it  cannot  be  said  that  they  are  exactly 
alike.  If  you  go  to  a  ball,  it  is  on  purpose  to 
twirl  your  feet,  and  yawn  behind  your  hand ; 
but  with  us  a  throng  of  girls  assembles  in  one 
cottage,  not  for  a  ball,  but  with  distaffs  and  hac- 
kling-combs.  And  at  first  they  seem  to  busy 
themselves  with  their  affairs  ;  the  distaffs  whir, 
songs  pour  forth,  and  not  a  maiden  raises  her 
eye  askance :  but  as  soon  as  the  boys  dash 
down  upon  the  cottage  with  the  fiddler,  a  cry 


1  A  sort  of  primitive  guitar,  with  a  long  neck  and  a  short,  gener¬ 
ally  triangular,  sounding-board,  strung  with  two  or  three  catgut  cords, 
which  are  plucked  with  the  fingers  in  playing. 

2  From  v etcher ,  evening. 


8 


INTR  OD  UC  TION. 


arises,  pranks  are  concocted,  dances  begin,  and 
such  capers  are  indulged  in  as  it  is  impossible 
to  describe. 

But  the  best  of  all  is,  when  they  crowd 
together  in  a  dense  cluster,  and  set  to  guessing 
riddles,  or  simply  begin  to  chat.  My  Heavens, 
what  don’t  they  tell !  What  ancient  things 
they  exhume  !  What  terrors  they  cause  !  But 
nowhere,  probably,  were  such  marvels  related 
as  at  the  evening  gatherings  at  the  house  of 
the  bee-farmer,  Ruduii  Panko.  t 

Why  the  townsfolk  call  me  Ruduii  Panko 
(the  red  gentleman),  by  Heavens,  I  cannot  tell ! 
And  my  hair,  it  seems,  is  now  more  gray  than 
red.  But  with  us,  one  must  not  get  angry, 
for  such  is  the  custom  :  if  people  confer  a  nick¬ 
name  on  any  one,  it  will  stick  to  him  for  ever 
and  ever.  They  used  to  assemble  on  the  eve 
of  a  festal  day,  these  good  people,  as  guests 
at  the  bee-farmer’s  poor  hut :  they  seated  them¬ 
selves  about  the  table,  —  and  then  I  would 
beg  you  only  to  listen  to  them.  You  would 
have  said  they  were  not  at  all  of  the  common 
herd,  not  mere  farm-laborers.  ...  Yes,  perhaps 
they  would  have  done  honor  to  some  higher  per- 


IN  TROD  UC  TION 


9 


son  than  a  farmer  by  their  visit.  .  .  .  Here,  for 
instance,  do  you  know  the  dyak  of  our  Dikanka 
church,  Thoma  Grigorovitch  ?  Eh,  there’s  a 
head  for  you  !  What  stories  he  could  get  off ! 
You  will  find  two  of  them  in  this  little  book. 
He  never  wore  a  motley  dressing-gown,  such 
as  you  find  on  many  village  sacristans ;  but, 
even  if  you  caught  him  on  ordinary  days,  he 
always  received  you  in  a  smock  of  fine  cloth, 
of  the  color  of  cold  potato  kisel,1  for  which 
he  had  paid  about  six  rubles  the  arshin 2  in 
Poltava.  None  of  us  on  all  the  farm  could  say 
of  his  shoes  that  they  ever  smelt  of  tar;  but 
every  one  knows  that  he  cleaned  them  with  the 
very  best  suet,  such  as  I  think  some  peasants 
would  put  into  their  oatmeal  porridge  with  joy. 
Neither  can  any  one  say  that  he  ever  wiped 
his  nose  on  the  skirts  of  his  smock,  as  some 
persons  of  his  profession  do ;  but  he  took  from 
his  bosom  a  neatly  folded  handkerchief,  em¬ 
broidered  on  all  the  edges  with  red  thread,  and, 
after  having  put  it  to  its  proper  use,  he  folded 
it  up  again,  generally  into  the  twelfth  part  of 
its  first  compass,  and  hid  it  again  in  his  breast. 


1  Sourish,  jelly-like  porridge. 


2  Twenty-eight  inches. 


IO 


IN  TROD  UC  TION 


And  one  of  the  guests,  —  well,  he  was  so  much 
of  a  gentleman,  that*he  might  be  dressed  up  on 
the  spot  as  an  assessor  or  an  under  mill-clerk. 
He  used  to  hold  his  finger  out  before  him, 
and,  gazing  at  its  tip,  he  would  set  out  to  tell  a 
story,  in  an  artistic,  cunning  way,  just  as  things 
are  in  printed  books.  Sometimes  you  would 
listen,  listen,  and  fall  into  a  revery.  You 
couldn’t  understand  any  thing,  if  you  were 
killed  for  it.  Where  did  he  get  such  words  ? 
Thoma  Grigorovitch  once  made  up  a  capital 
fancy  decoration  to  a  story,  as  a  hit  at  this. 
He  told  him  that  a  student,  who  had  learned 
reading  and  writing  of  a  certain  sacristan, 
came  home  to  his  father’s  house,  and  had  got 

to  be  such  a  Latin  scholar,  that  he  had  even 

* 

forgotten  our  orthodox  language :  all  the  words 
twisted  round  on  his  tongue.  He  called  lopata 
(a  spade),  lopatus  ;  baba  (a  woman),  babus.  So 
once  it  came  to  pass  that  he  and  his  father 
went  into  the  fields  together.  The  Latinist 
caught  sight  of  a  rake,  and  asked  his  father, 
“What  do  you  call  this,  father?”  and  then, 
open-mouthed,  he  set  his  foot  on  the  teeth0 
His  father  had  not  managed  to  answer  him, 


IN  TROD  UC  TION . 


1 1 

when  the  handle  gave  a  flourish,  rose  up,  and  — 
bang  it  went  on  his  forehead  !  “  Confound  the 

rake!”  shrieked  the  scholar,  clutching  at  his 
forehead,  and  jumping  a  whole  arshin:  “  may 
the  Evil  One  knock  its  father  off  the  bridge  ! 
how  painfully  it  strikes  !  ”  So  there  it  was  !  the 
little  dove  remembered  its  name.  Such  a  tale 
did  not  suit  the  taste  of  the  inventive  story¬ 
teller.  He  rose  from  his  seat  without  a  word, 
planted  his  feet  wide  apart  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  inclined  his  head  a  little  forward,  thrust 
his  hand  into  the  hind-pocket  of  his  pea-green 
coat,  pulled  out  a  round,  lacquered  snuff-box, 
tapped  with  his  finger  upon  the  painted  phiz  of 
some  Mussulman  general,  and  taking  any  thing 
but  a  small  pinch  of  snuff,  ground  up  from 
ashes  and  lovage-leaves,  he  raised  it  with  a 
pump-handle  motion  to  his  nose,  and  stretched 
out  his  nose  in  passing  at  the  whole  heap, 
without  even  touching  his  thumb,  and  all  with¬ 
out  uttering  a  word  :  then  he  dived  into  another 
pocket,  and  pulled  out  a  blue-checked  cotton 
handkerchief ;  and  then  only  did  he  growl  some¬ 
thing  to  himself,  which  sounded  like  the  prov¬ 
erb,  “  Cast  not  your  pearls  before  swiueC 


12 


IN  TROD  UC  TION. 


“Now  there  will  be  a  quarrel,”  I  thought,  per¬ 
ceiving  that  Thoma  Grigorovitch’s  fingers  were 
folding  in  preparation  for  an  insulting  sign. 
Fortunately,  my  old  woman  had  the  wit  to  set 
upon  the  table  a  hot  knish, 1  with  butter,  and  all 
set  to  work.  Thoma  Grigorovitch’s  hand,  in¬ 
stead  of  showing  the  sign,  was  stretched  out 
towards  the  kuish ;  and,  as  it  always  happens, 
they  all  began  to  praise  the  masterly  housewife. 

We  had  still  another  story-teller  among  us ; 
but  he  (there’s  no  need  of  recalling  him  at 
night)  dug  up  such  frightful  tales,  that  our  hair 
stood  straight  up  on  our  heads.  I  have  deliber¬ 
ately  refrained  from  placing  any  of  them  here : 
good  people  would  be  so  scared,  that,  Heaven 
forgive  them  !  they  would  take  to  fearing  the 
bee-farmer  like  a  fiend.  It  is  better,  therefore,  if 
God  grants  me  to  live  until  the  New  Year,  and 
to  issue  another  little  book,  then  perhaps  I  may 
frighten  them  with  visitors  from  another  world, 
and  marvels  such  as  were  performed  in  our 
orthodox  land  in  olden  days.  Among  them, 
you  will  find,  perhaps,  some  little  tales  by  the 
bee-farmer  himself,  such  as  he  related  to  his 


1  A  cake  baked  with  butter  or  grease. 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


r 

grandchildren.  If  they  are  but  read  and  listened 
to,  I  can  collect  ten  such  little  books  —  only 
this  confounded  indolence  overpowers  me. 

Yes,  and  I  came  near  forgetting  the  most  im¬ 
portant  thing  of  all !  when  you  come  to  see  me, 
gentlemen,  take  the  straight  path  by  the  post¬ 
road  to  Dikanka.  I  have  placed  it  on  the  first 
leaf  on  purpose  that  you  may  reach  our  farm  as 
speedily  as  possible.  Of  Dikanka,  I  think  you 
have  already  heard  enough. 

It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  there  is  a  house 
there  cleaner  than  any  bee-keeper's  barrack.  Of 
the  garden,  nothing  can  be  said  :  in  your  Peters¬ 
burg,  you  will  not  find  such  another,  of  a  surety. 
On  arriving  at  Dikanka,  just  ask  the  first  small 
boy  you  meet  in  a  dirty  shirt,  tending  geese, 
“Where  does  Ruduii  Panko,  the  bee-farmer, 
live  ?  ”  —  “  Why,  there !  ”  he  will  say,  pointing 
with  his  finger ;  and,  if  you  like,  he  will  con¬ 
duct  you  to  the  very  farmhouse.  But  I  beseech 
you  not  to  put  your  arms  behind  you,  and  back¬ 
bite  as  the  saying  is  ;  for  the  roads  to  our  farms 
are  not  so  smooth  as  they  are  before  our  tem¬ 
ples.  Thoma  Grigorovitch,  when  he  came  from 
Dikanka  the  year  before  last,  made  acquaintance 


14 


INTRODUCTION. 


with  a  hole,  in  company  with  his  brown  mare 
and  a  new  tarataika,1  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he 
was  driving  himself,  and  that  he  had  temporarily 
placed  over  his  own  eyes  some  others  which  he 
had  bought. 

Moreover,  when  you  come  as  my  guest,  we 
will  give  you  such  melons  as  you  probably  never 
ate  since  you  were  born  ;  and  honey  —  I  swear 
that  you  can  find  no  better  at  any  farm.  Just 
imagine,  when  you  fetch  in  a  comb  of  honey,  a 
perfume  such  as  it  is  impossible  to  form  any 
idea  of  wafts  through  all  the  room  :  it  is  trans¬ 
lucent  as  a  tear,  or  the  precious  crystal  which 
people  have  in  earrings.  And  what  piroggi 
(patties)  my  old  woman  will  feed  you  on  !  If 
you  only  knew  what  patties  they  are !  sugar, 
perfect  sugar !  and  butter,  so  that  it  trickles 
over  your  lips  when  you  begin  to  eat !  You  will 
think  rightly,  what  master-hands  these  women 
are  !  Did  you  ever,  gentlemen,  drink  pear  kvas 
with  thorn-tree  haws?  orvarenukha2  with  rai¬ 
sins  and  cream  ?  Or  did  you  ever  chance  to 
eat  putra 3  with  milk?  My  Heavens!  what 


1  A  two-wheeled  peasant  wagon. 

2  Berry  brandy,  made  of  berries,  brandy,  honey,  and  spices. 

3  A  sort  of  soup,  made  of  vegetables,  groats,  and  milk. 


INTRODUCTION, 


15 


dishes  there  are  in  this  world!  You  begin 
to  eat  —  you  gorge  yourself,  and  that’s  all 
there  is  about  it :  it’s  an  inexpressible  delight. 
Last  year —  But  what  nonsense  am  I  chatter¬ 
ing  ?  Only  come,  come  as  soon  as  you  possibly 
can  ;  and  we  will  feed  you,  so  that  you  will  tell 
the  tale  far  and  wide. 

BEE-FARMER  RUDUII  PANKO. 

Note.  —  Later  on,  the  gentleman  in  the  pea-green 

* 

coat  deserted  this  worshipful  company.  It  came  about 
in  this  wise:  the  question  of  pickling  apples  for  winter 
use  arose.  The  Ruduii  Panko’s  “old  woman  ”  said  that 
the  apples  should  first  be  well  washed,  and  then  dipped 
in  kvas.  The  pea-green  Poltava  man  immediately  said, 
“  Nothing  of  the  sort !  First  of  all,  they  must  be  strewn 
with  tansy,  and  then  ”  —  Now,  no  one  had  ever  heard  of 
tansy  being  used  in  that  way,  though  currant-leaves, 
hawkweed,  and  trefoil  were  not  uncommon,  and  no  one 
understood  such  matters  better  than  the  old  woman. 
The  host,  therefore,  led  the  innovator  quietly  to  one  side, 
and  besought  him  not  to  set  people  by  the  ears,  even  if  he 
was  a  man  of  importance,  who  had  dined  once  at  the 
same  table  as  the  governor,  and  warned  him  that  people 
would  ridicule  him  if  he  said  such  things.  The  man, 
who  carried  his  nose  in  the  air  because  his  uncle  had 
been  a  commissary  (“  though,  glory  to  God,  there  are 
official  positions  more  elevated  than  even  a  commis¬ 
sary’s  !  ”),  simply  spit,  and  took  himself  off  without  a 
word,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  company.  —  TV. 


ST.  JOHN’S  EVE.1 

RELATED  BY  THE  SACRISTAN  OF  THE  DIKANKA 

CHURCH. 


Thoma  Grigorovitch  had  a  very  strange 
sort  of  eccentricity :  to  the  day  of  his  death,  he 
never  liked  to  tell  the  same  thing  twice.  There 
were  times,  when,  if  you  asked  him  to  relate  a 
thing  afresh,  behold,  he  would  interpolate  new 
matter,  or  alter  it  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
recognize  it.  Once  on  a  time,  one  of  those 
gentlemen  (it  is  hard  for  us  simple  people  to 
put  a  name  to  them,  to  say  whether  they  are 
scribblers,  or  not  scribblers  :  but  it  is  just  the 
same  thing  as  the  usurers  at  our  yearly  fairs  ; 
they  clutch  and  beg  and  steal  every  sort  of 
frippery,  and  issue  mean  little  volumes,  no 

1  This  is  one  of  the  stories  from  the  celebrated  volume  entitled 
“  Tales  at  a  Farmhouse  near  Dikanka.” 


17 


1 8 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


thicker  than  an  A  B  C  book,  every  month,  or 
even  every  week),  —  one  of  these  gentlemen 
wormed  this  same  story  out  of  Thoma  Grigoro- 
vitch,  and  he  completely  forgot  about  it.  But 
that  same  young  gentleman  in  the  pea-green 
caftan,  whom  I  have  mentioned,  and  one  of 
whose  Tales  you  have  already  read,  I  think, 
came  from  Poltava,  bringing  with  him  a  little 
book,  and,  opening  it  in  the  middle,  shows  it  to 
us.  Thoma  Grigorovitch  was  on  the  point  of 
setting  his  spectacles  astride  of  his  nose,  but 
recollected  that  he  had  forgotten  to  wind 
thread  about  them,  and  stick  them  together 
with  wax,  so  he  passed  it  over  to  me.  As  I 
understand  something  about  reading  and  writ¬ 
ing,  and  do  not  wear  spectacles,  I  undertook  to 
read  it.  I  had  not  turned  two  leaves,  when  all 
at  once  he  caught  me  by  the  hand,  and  stopped 
me. 

“  Stop !  tell  me  first  what  you  are  reading.” 

I  confess  that  I  was  a  trifle  stunned  by  such 
a  question. 

“  What !  what  am  I  reading,  Thoma  Grigoro¬ 
vitch  ?  These  were  your  very  words.” 

“  Who  told  you  that  they  were  my  words  ?  ” 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


19 


“Why,  what  more  would  you  have?  Here 
it  is  printed  :  Related  by  such  and  such  a 
sacristan ." 

“  Spit  on  the  head  of  the  man  who  printed 
that !  he  lies,  the  dog  of  a  Moscow  pedler ! 
Did  I  say  that  ?  ’  Twas  just  the  same  as  though 
one  hadn't  his  wits  about  him  !  Listen.  I’ll 
tell  it  to  you  on  the  spot.” 

We  moved  up  to  the  table,  and  he  began. 


My  grandfather  (the  kingdom  of  heaven 
be  his !  may  he  eat  only  wheaten  rolls  and 
makovniki 1  with  honey  in  the  other  world  !) 
could  tell  a  story  wonderfully  well.  When  he 
used  to  begin  on  a  tale,  you  wouldn’t  stir  from 
the  spot  all  day,  but  keep  on  listening.  He 
was  no  match  for  the  story-teller  of  the  present 
day,  when  he  begins  to  lie,  with  a  tongue  as 
though  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  three  days, 
so  that  you  snatch  your  cap,  and  flee  from  the 
house.  As  I  now  recall  it,  —  my  old  mother 
was  alive  then,  —  in  the  long  winter  evenings 
when  the  frost  was  crackling  out  of  doors,  and 


1  Poppy-seeds  cooked  in  honey,  and  dried  in  square  cakes. 


20 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


had  so  sealed  up  hermetically  the  narrow  panes 
of  our  cottage,  she  used  to  sit  before  the  hack- 
ling-comb,  drawing  out  a  long  thread  in  her 
hand,  rocking  the  cradle  with  her  foot,  and 
humming  a  song,  which  I  seem  to  hear  even 
now. 

The  fat -lamp  quivering  and  flaring  up  as 
though  in  fear  of  something,  lighted  us  within 
our  cottage ;  the  spindle  hummed  ;  and  all  of 
us  children,  collected  in  a  cluster,  listened  to 
grandfather,  who  had  not  crawled  off  the  oven 
for  more  than  five  years,  owing  to  his  great 
age.  But  the  wondrous  tales  of  the  incursions 
of  the  Zaporozhian  Cossacks,  the  Poles,  the 
bold  deeds  of  Podkova,  of  Poltor-Kozhukh,  and 
Sagaidatchnii,  did  not  interest  us  so  much  as 
the  stories  about  some  deed  of  eld  which  al¬ 
ways  sent  a  shiver  through  our  frames,  and 
made  our  hair  rise  upright  on  our  heads. 
Sometimes  such  terror  took  possession  of  us  in 
consequence  of  them,  that,  from  that  evening 
on,  Heaven  knows  what  a  marvel  every  thing 
seemed  to  us.  If  you  chance  to  go  out  of  the 
cottage  after  nightfall  for  any  thing,  you  ima¬ 
gine  that  a  visitor  from  the  other  world  has  lain 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


21 


down  to  sleep  in  your  bed ;  and  I  should  not 
be  able  to  tell  this  a  second  time  were  it  not 
that  I  had  often  taken  my  own  smock,  at  a  dis¬ 
tance,  as  it  lay  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  for  the 
Evil  One  rolled  up  in  a  ball  !  But  the  chief 
thing  about  grandfather’s  stories  was,  that  he 
never  had  lied  in  all  his  life ;  and  whatever  he 
said  was  so,  was  so. 

I  will  now  relate  to  you  one  of  his  marvellous 
tales.  I  know  that  there  are  a  great  many  wise 
people  who  copy  in  the  courts,  and  can  even 
read  civil  documents,  who,  if  you  were  to  put 
into  their  hand  a  simple  prayer-book,  could  not 
make  out  the  first  letter  in  it,  and  would  show 
all  their  teeth  in  derision  —  which  is  wisdom. 
These  people  laugh  at  every  thing  you  tell 
them.  Such  incredulity  has  spread  abroad  in 
the  world  !  What  then  ?  (Why,  may  God  and 
the  Holy  Virgin  cease  to  love  me  if  it  is  not 
possible  that  even  you  will  not  believe  me  !) 
Once  he  said  something  about  witches ;  .  .  . 
What  then  ?  Along  comes  one  of  these  head- 
breakers, —  and  doesn’t  believe  in  witches! 
Yes,  glory  to  God  that  I  have  lived  so  long  in 
the  world !  I  have  seen  heretics,  to  whom  it 


22 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


would  be  easier  to  lie  in  confession  than  it 
would  to  our  brothers  and  equals  to  take  snuff, 
and  those  people  would  deny  the  existence  of 
witches  !  But  let  them  just  dream  about  some¬ 
thing,  and  they  won’t  even  tell  what  it  was  ! 
There’s  no  use  in  talking  about  them  ! 


ST.  JOHN’S  EVE. 


No  one  could  have  recognized  this  village  of 
ours  a  little  over  a  hundred  years  ago  :  a  ham¬ 
let  it  was,  the  poorest  kind  of  a  hamlet.  Half 
a  score  of  miserable  izbas,  unplastered,  badly 
thatched,  were  scattered  here  and  there  about 
the  fields.  There  was  not  an  enclosure  or  a 
decent  shed  to  shelter  animals  or  wagons. 
That  was  the  way  the  wealthy  lived :  and  if  you 
had  looked  for  our  brothers,  the  poor, — why,  a 
hole  in  the  ground,  —  that  was  a  cabin  for  you  ! 
Only  by  the  smoke  could  you  tell  that  a  God- 
created  man  lived  there.  You  ask  why  they 
lived  so  ?  It  was  not  entirely  through  poverty: 
almost  every  one  led  a  wandering,  Cossack  life, 
and  gathered  not  a  little  plunder  in  foreign 
lands  ;  it  was  rather  because  there  was  no  rea¬ 
son  for  setting  up  a  well-ordered  khata  (wooden 
house).  How  many  people  were  wandering 


23 


24 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


all  over  the  country,  —  Crimeans,  Poles,  Lith¬ 
uanians  !  It  was  quite  possible  that  their  own 
countrymen  might  make  a  descent,  and  plunder 
every  thing.  Any  thing  was  possible. 

In  this  hamlet  a  man,  or  rather  a  devil  in 
human  form,  often  made  his  appearance.  Why 
he  came,  and  whence,  no  one  knew.  He 
prowled  about,  got  drunk,  and  suddenly  dis¬ 
appeared  as  if  into  the  air,  and  there  was  not 
a  hint  of  his  existence.  Then,  again,  behold, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  dropped  from  the  sky, 
and  went  flying  about  the  street  of  the  village, 
of  which  no  trace  now  remains,  and  which  was 
not  more  than  a  hundred  paces  from  Dikanka. 
He  would  collect  together  all  the  Cossacks  he 
met ;  then  there  were  songs,  laughter,  money 
in  abundance,  and  vodka  flowed  like  water.  .  .  . 
He  would  address  the  pretty  girls,  and  give 
them  ribbons,  earrings,  strings  of  beads,  — 
more  than  they  knew  what  to  do  with.  It  is 
true  that  the  pretty  girls  rather  hesitated  about 
accepting  his  presents  :  God  knows,  perhaps 
they  had  passed  through  unclean  hands.  My 
grandfather’s  aunt,  who  kept  a  tavern  at  that 
time,  in  which  Basavriuk  (as  they  called  that 


ST,  JOHN'S  EVE . 


25 


devil-man)  often  had  his  carouses,  said  that  no 
consideration  on  the  face  of  the  earth  would 
have  induced  her  to  accept  a  gift  from  him. 
And  then,  again,  how  avoid  accepting  ?  Fear 
seized  on  every  one  when  he  knit  his  bristly 
brows,  and  gave  a  sidelong  glance  which  might 
send  your  feet,  God  knows  whither :  but  if  you 
accept,  then  the  next  night  some  fiend  from  the 
swamp,  with  horns  on  his  head,  comes  to  call, 
and  begins  to  squeeze  your  neck,  when  there  is 
a  string  of  beads  upon  it ;  or  bite  your  finger,  if 
there  is  a  ring  upon  it;  or  drag  you  by  the  hair, 
if  ribbons  are  braided  in  it.  God  have  mercy, 
then,  on  those  who  owned  such  gifts !  But 
here  was  the  difficulty  :  it  was  impossible  to 
get  rid  of  them  ;  if  you  threw  them  into  the 
water,  the  diabolical  ring  or  necklace  would 
skim  along  the  surface,  and  into  your  hand. 

There  was  a  church  in  the  village,  —  St.  Pan- 
telei,  if  I  remember  rightly.  There  lived  there 
a  priest,  Father  Athanasii  of  blessed  memory. 
Observing  that  Basavriuk  did  not  come  to 
church,  even  on  Easter,  he  determined  to  re¬ 
prove  him,  and  impose  penance  upon  him. 
Well,  he  hardly  escaped  with  his  life.  “  Hark 


2  6 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


ye,  pannotche1!”  he  thundered  in  reply,  “  learn 
to  mind  your  own  business  instead  of  meddling 
in  other  people’s,  if  you  don’t  want  that  goat’s 
throat  of  yours  stuck  together  with  boiling 
kutya.”2  What  was  to  be  done  with  this  un¬ 
repentant  man  ?  Father  Athanasii  contented 
himself  with  announcing  that  any  one  who 
should  make  the  acquaintance  of  Basavriuk 
would  be  counted  a  Catholic,  an  enemy  of 
Christ’s  church,  not  a  member  of  the  human 
race. 

In  this  village  there  was  a  Cossack  named 
Korzh,  who  had  a  laborer  whom  people  called 
Peter  the  Orphan  —  perhaps  because  no  one 
remembered  either  his  father  or  mother.  The 
church  starost,  it  is  true,  said  that  they  had 
died  of  the  pest  in  his  second  year ;  but  my 
grandfather’s  aunt  would  not  hear  to  that,  and 
tried  with  all  her  might  to  furnish  him  with  par¬ 
ents,  although  poor  Peter  needed  them  about 
as  much  as  we  need  last  year’s  snow.  She 
said  that  his  father  had  been  in  Zaporozhe, 

1  Sir. 

2  A  dish  of  rice  or  wheat  flour,  with  honey  and  raisins,  which  is 
brought  to  the  church  on  the  celebration  of  memorial  masses. 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


27 


taken  prisoner  by  the  Turks,  underwent  God 
only  knows  what  tortures,  and  having,  by  some 
miracle,  disguised  himself  as  a  eunuch,  had 
made  his  escape.  Little  cared  the  black- 
browed  youths  and  maidens  about  his  parents. 
They  merely  remarked,  that  if  he  only  had 
a  new  coat,  a  red  sash,  a  black  lambskin  cap, 
with  dandified  blue  crown,  on  his  head,  a  Turk¬ 
ish  sabre  hanging  by  his  side,  a  whip  in  one 
hand  and  a  pipe  with  handsome  mountings  in 
the  other,  he  would  surpass  all  the  young  men. 
But  the  pity  was,  that  the  only  thing  poor 
Peter  had  was  a  gray  svitka  with  more  holes  in 
it  than  there  are  gold  pieces  in  a  Jew's  pocket. 
And  that  was  not  the  worst  of  it,  but  this  : 
that  Korzh  had  a  daughter,  such  a  beauty  as  I 
think  you  can  hardly  have  chanced  to  see.  My 
deceased  grandfather’s  aunt  used  to  say  —  and 
you  know  that  it  is  easier  for  a  woman  to  kiss 
the  Evil  One  than  to  call  anybody  a  beauty, 
without  malice  be  it  said  —  that  this  Cossack 
maiden’s  cheeks  were  as  plump  and  fresh  as 
the  pinkest  poppy  when  just  bathed  in  God’s 
dew,  and,  glowing,  it  unfolds  its  petals,  and 
coquets  with  the  rising  sun ;  that  her  brows 


28 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


were  like  black  cords,  such  as  our  maidens  buy 
nowadays,  for  their  crosses  and  ducats,  of  the 
Moscow  pedlers  who  visit  the  villages  with 
their  baskets,  and  evenly  arched  as  though 
peeping  into  her  clear  eyes ;  that  her  little 
mouth,  at  sight  of  which  the  youths  smacked 
their  lips,  seemed  made  to  emit  the  songs  of 
nightingales  ;  that  her  hair,  black  as  the  raven’s 
wing,  and  soft  as  young  flax  (our  maidens  did 
not  then  plait  their  hair  in  clubs  interwoven 
with  pretty,  bright-hued  ribbons),  fell  in  curls 
over  her  kuntush.1  Eh!  may  I  never  intone 
another  alleluia  in  the  choir,  if  I  would  not 
have  kissed  her,  in  spite  of  the  gray  which  is 
making  its  way  all  through  the  old  wool  which 
covers  my  pate,  and  my  old  woman  beside 
me,  like  a  thorn  in  my  side !  Well,  you  know 
what  happens  when  young  men  and  maids  live 
side  by  side.  In  the  twilight  the  heels  of  red 
boots  were  always  visible  in  the  place  where 
Pidorka  chatted  with  her  Petrus.  But  Korzh 
would  never  have  suspected  any  thing  out  of 
the  way,  only  one  day  —  it  is  evident  that 
none  but  the  Evil  One  could  have  inspired 


1  Upper  garment  in  Little  Russia. 


ST  JOHN'S  EVE . 


29 


him  —  Petrus  took  it  into  his  head  to  kiss  the 
Cossack  maiden’s  rosy  lips  with  all  his  heart  in 
the  passage,  without  first  looking  well  about 
him  ;  and  that  same  Evil  One  —  may  the  son  of 
a  dog  dream  of  the  holy  cross!  —  caused  the 
old  graybeard,  like  a  fool,  to  open  the  cottage- 
door  at  that  same  moment.  Korzh  was  petri¬ 
fied,  dropped  his  jaw,  and  clutched  at  the  door 
for  support.  Those  unlucky  kisses  had  com¬ 
pletely  stunned  him.  It  surprised  him  more 
than  the  blow  of  a  pestle  on  the  wall,  with 
which,  in  our  days,  the  muzhik  generally  drives 
out  his  intoxication  for  lack  of  fusees  and 
powder. 

Recovering  himself,  he  took  his  grandfather’s 
hunting-whip  from  the  wall,  and  was  about  to 
belabor  Peter’s  back  with  it,  when  Pidorka’s 
little  six-year-old  brother  Ivas  rushed  up  from 
somewhere  or  other,  and,  grasping  his  father’s 
legs  with  his  little  hands,  screamed  out, 
“  Daddy,  daddy!  don’t  beat  Petrus!”  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  A  father’s  heart  is  not  made 
of  stone.  Hanging  the  whip  again  upon  the 
wall,  he  led  him  quietly  from  the  house.  “  If 
you  ever  show  yourself  in  my  cottage  again, 


30 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


or  even  under  the  windows,  look  out,  Petro !  by 
Heaven,  your  black  mustache  will  disappear; 
and  your  black  locks,  though  wound  twice 
about  your  ears,  will  take  leave  of  your  pate, 
or  my  name  is  not  Terentiy  Korzh.”  So  say¬ 
ing,  he  gave  him  a  little  taste  of  his  fist  in  the 
nape  of  his  neck,  so  that  all  grew  dark  before 
Petrus,  and  he  flew  headlong.  So  there  was  an 
end  of  their  kissing.  Sorrow  seized  upon  our 
doves ;  and  a  rumor  was  rife  in  the  village,  that 
a  certain  Pole,  all  embroidered  with  gold,  with 
mustaches,  sabre,  spurs,  and  pockets  jingling 
like  the  bells  of  the  bag  with  which  our  sacris¬ 
tan  Taras  goes  through  the  church  every  day, 
had  begun  to  frequent  Korzh’s  house.  Now, 
it  is  well  known  why  the  father  is  visited  when 
there  is  a  black-browed  daughter  about.  So, 
one  day,  Pidorka  burst  into  tears,  and  clutched 
the  hand  of  her  Ivas.  “Ivas,  my  dear!  Ivas, 
my  love  !  fly  to  Petrus,  my  child  of  gold,  like 
an  arrow  from  a  bow.  Tell  him  all :  I  would 
have  loved  his  brown  eyes,  I  would  have  kissed 
his  white  face,  but  my  fate  decrees  not  so. 
More  than  one  towel  have  I  wet  with  burning 
tears.  I  am  sad,  I  am  heavy  at  heart.  And 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


31 


my  own  father  is  my  enemy.  I  will  not  marry 
that  Pole,  whom  I  do  not  love.  Tell  him  they 
are  preparing  a  wedding,  but  there  will  be  no 
music  at  our  wedding :  ecclesiastics  will  sing 
instead  of  pipes  and  kobzas.1  I  shall  not 
dance  with  my  bridegroom  :  they  will  carry 
me  out.  Dark,  dark  will  be  my  dwelling,  — 
of  maple  wood ;  and,  instead  of  chimneys,  a 
cross  will  stand  upon  the  roof.” 

Petro  stood  petrified,  without  moving  from 
the  spot,  when  the  innocent  child  lisped  out 
Pidorka’s  words  to  him.  “And  I,  unhappy 
man,  thought  to  go  to  the  Crimea  and  Turkey, 
win  gold  and  return  to  thee,  my  beauty !  But 
it  may  not  be.  The  evil  eye  has  seen  us.  I 
will  have  a  wedding,  too,  dear  little  fish,  I  too ; 
but  no  ecclesiastics  will  be  at  that  wedding. 
The  black  crow  will  caw,  instead  of  the  pope, 
over  me  ;  the  smooth  field  will  be  my  dwelling ; 
the  dark  blue  clouds  my  roof-tree.  The  eagle 
will  claw  out  my  brown  eyes :  the  rain  will 
wash  the  Cossack’s  bones,  and  the  whirlwinds 
will  dry  them.  But  what  am  I  ?  Of  whom,  to 
whom,  am  I  complaining  ?  ’Tis  plain,  God 


1  Eight-stringed  musical  instrument. 


32 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


willed  it  so.  If  I  am  to  be  lost,  then  so  be 
it !  ”  and  he  went  straight  to  the  tavern. 

My  late  grandfather’s  aunt  was  somewhat 
surprised  on  seeing  Petrus  in  the  tavern,  and 
at  an  hour  when  good  men  go  to  morning  mass  ; 
and  she  stared  at  him  as  though  in  a  dream, 
when  he  demanded  a  jug  of  brandy,  about  half 
a  pailful.  But  the  poor  fellow  tried  in  vain  to 
drown  his  woe.  The  vodka  stung  his  tongue 
like  nettles,  and  tasted  more  bitter  than  worm¬ 
wood.  He  flung  the  jug  from  him  upon  the 
ground.  “You  have  sorrowed  enough,  Cos¬ 
sack,”  growled  a  bass  voice  behind  him.  He 
looked  round  —  Basavriuk  !  Ugh,  what  a  face  ! 
His  hair  was  like  a  brush,  his  eyes  like  those 
of  a  bull.  “  I  know  what  you  lack :  here  it 
is.”  Then  he  jingled  a  leather  purse  which 
hung  from  his  girdle,  and  smiled  diabolically. 
Petro  shuddered.  “He,  he,  he!  yes,  how  it 
shines !  ”  he  roared,  shaking  out  ducats  into 
his  hand:  “he,  he,  he!  and  how  it  jingles! 
And  I  only  ask  one  thing  for  a  whole  pile  of 
such  shiners.”  —  “It  is  the  Evil  One!”  ex¬ 
claimed  Petro:  —  “Give  them  here!  I’m  ready 
for  any  thing  !  ”  They  struck  hands  upon  it. 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


33 


“See  here,  Petro,  you  are  ripe  just  in  time: 
to-morrow  is  St.  John  the  Baptist’s  day.  Only 
on  this  one  night  in  the  year  does  the  fern 
blossom.  Delay  not.  I  will  await  thee  at  mid¬ 
night  in  the  Bear’s  ravine.” 

I  do  not  believe  that  chickens  await  the  hour 
when  the  woman  brings  their  corn,  with  as 
much  anxiety  as  Petrus  awaited  the  evening. 
And,  in  fact,  he  looked  to  see  whether  the  shad¬ 
ows  of  the  trees  were  not  lengthening,  if  the 
sun  were  not  turning  red  towards  setting ;  and, 
the  longer  he  watched,  the  more  impatient  he 
grew.  How  long  it  was  !  Evidently,  God’s  day 
had  lost  its  end  somewhere.  And  now  the  sun 
is  gone.  The  sky  is  red  only  on  one  side,  and 
it  is  already  growing  dark.  It  grows  colder  in 
the  fields.  It  gets  dusky,  and  more  dusky,  and 
at  last  quite  dark.  At  last !  With  heart  al¬ 
most  bursting  from  his  bosom,  he  set  out  on 
his  way,  and  cautiously  descended  through  the 
dense  woods  into  the  deep  hollow  called  the 
Bear’s  ravine.  Basavriuk  was  already  waiting 
there.  It  was  so  dark,  that  you  could  not  see 
a  yard  before  you.  Hand  in  hand  they  pene¬ 
trated  the  thin  marsh,  clinging  to  the  luxuriant 


34 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


thorn-bushes,  and  stumbling  at  almost  every 
step.  At  last  they  reached  an  open  spot. 
Petro  looked  about  him  :  he  had  never  chanced 
to  come  there  before.  Here  Basavriuk  halted. 

“  Do  you  see,  before  you  stand  three  hillocks? 
There  are  a  great  many  sorts  of  flowers  upon 
them.  But  may  some  power  keep  you  from 
plucking  even  one  of  them.  But  as  soon  as  the 
fern  blossoms,  seize  it,  and  look  not  round,  no 
matter  what  may  seem  to  be  going  on  behind 
thee.” 

Petro  wanted  to  ask  —  and  behold,  he  was  no 
longer  there.  He  approached  the  three  hillocks 
— where  were  the  flowers  ?  He  saw  nothing. 
The  wild  steppe-grass  darkled  around,  and 
stifled  every  thing  in  its  luxuriance.  But  the 
lightning  flashed  ;  and  before  him  stood  a  whole 
bed  of  flowers,  all  wonderful,  all  strange:  and 
there  were  also  the  simple  fronds  of  fern.  Pe¬ 
tro  doubted  his  senses,  and  stood  thoughtfully 
before  them,  with  both  hands  upon  his  sides. 

“  What  prodigy  is  this  ?  one  can  see  these 
weeds  ten  times  in  a  day  :  what  marvel  is  there 
about  them  ?  was  not  devil’s-face  laughing  at 


ST.  JOHN ’S  EVE. 


35 


Behold !  the  tiny  flower-bud  crimsons,  and 
moves  as  though  alive.  It  is  a  marvel,  in 
truth.  It  moves,  and  grows  larger  and  larger, 
and  flushes  like  a  burning  coal.  The  tiny  star 
flashes  up,  something  bursts  softly,  and  the 
flower  opens  before  his  eyes  like  a  flame,  light¬ 
ing  the  others  about  it.  “Now  is  the  time,” 
thought  Petro,  and  extended  his  hand.  He 
sees  hundreds  of  shaggy  hands  reach  from  be¬ 
hind  him,  also  for  the  flower;  and  there  is  a 
running  about  from  place  to  place,  in  the  rear. 
He  half  shut  his  eyes,  plucked  sharply  at  the 
stalk,  and  the  flower  remained  in  his  hand.  All 
became  still.  Upon  a  stump  sat  Basavriuk,  all 
blue  like  a  corpse.  He  moved  not  so  much  as 
a  finger.  His  eyes  were  immovably  fixed  on 
something  visible  to  him  alone  :  his  mouth  was 
half  open  and  speechless.  All  about,  nothing 
stirred.  Ugh!  it  was  horrible!  —  But  then  a 
whistle  was  heard,  which  made  Petro’s  heart 
grow  cold  within  him  ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  grass  whispered,  and  the  flowers  began  to 
talk  among  themselves  in  delicate  voices,  like 
little  silver  bells  ;  the  trees  rustled  in  waving 
contention  ;  —  Basavriuk’s  face  suddenly  became 


36  57:  JOHN'S  EVE. 

full  of  life,  and  his  eyes  sparkled.  “The  witch 
has  just  returned/’  he  muttered  between  his 
teeth.  “See  here,  Petro:  a  beauty  will  stand 
before  you  in  a  moment;  do  whatever  she  com¬ 
mands;  if  not  —  you  are  lost  forever.”  Then 
he  parted  the  thorn-bush  with  a  knotty  stick, 
and  before  him  stood  a  tiny  izba,  on  chicken’s 
legs,  as  they  say.  Basavriuk  smote  it  with  his 
fist,  and  the  wall  trembled.  A  large  black  dog 
ran  out  to  meet  them,  and  with  a  whine,  trans¬ 
forming  itself  into  a  cat,  flew  straight  .at  his 
eyes.  “Don’t  be  angry,  don’t  be  angry,  you  old 
Satan  !  ”  said  Basavriuk,  employing  such  words 
as  would  have  made  a  good  man  stop  his  ears. 
Behold,  instead  of  a  cat,  an  old  woman  with  a 
face  wrinkled  like  a  baked  apple,  and  all  bent 
into  a  bow  :  her  nose  and  chin  were  like  a  pair 
of  nut-crackers.  “A  stunning  beauty !  ”  thought 
Petro;  and  cold  chills  ran  down  his  back.  The 
witch  tore  the  flower  from  his  hand,  bent  over, 
and  muttered  over  it  for  a  long  time,  sprinkling 
it  with  some  kind  of  water.  Sparks  flew  from 
her  mouth,  froth  appeared  on  her  lips. 

“  Throw  it  away,”  she  said,  giving  it  back  to 
Petro. 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


37 


Petro  threw  it,  and  what  wonder  was  this  ?  the 
flower  did  not  fall  straight  to  the  earth,  but  for 
a  long  while  twinkled  like  a  fiery  ball  through 
the  darkness,  and  swam  through  the  air  like  a 
boat  :  at  last  it  began  to  sink  lower  and  lower, 
and  fell  so  far  away,  that  the  little  star,  hardly 
larger  than  a  poppy-seed,  was  barely  visible. 
“  Here !  ”  croaked  the  old  woman,  in  a  dull  voice  : 
and  Basavriuk,  giving  him  a  spade,  said,  “  Dig 
here,  Petro :  here  you  will  see  more  gold  than 
you  or  Korzh  ever  dreamed  of.” 

Petro  spat  on  his  hands,  seized  the  spade, 
applied  his  foot,  and  turned  up  the  earth,  a 
second,  a  third,  a  fourth  time.  .  .  .  There  was 
something  hard  :  the  spade  clinked,  and  would 
go  no  farther.  Then  his  eyes  began  to  distin¬ 
guish  a  small,  iron-bound  coffer.  He  tried  to 
seize  it ;  but  the  chest  began  to  sink  into  the 
earth,  deeper,  farther,  and  deeper  still :  and 
behind  him  he  heard  a  laugh,  more  like  a  ser¬ 
pent’s  hiss.  “  No,  you  shall  not  see  the  gold 
until  you  procure  human  blood,”  said  the  witch, 
and  led  up  to  him  a  child  of  six,  covered  with 
a  white  sheet,  indicating  by  a  sign  that  he  was 
to  cut  off  his  head.  Petro  was  stunned.  A 


38 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


trifle,  indeed,  to  cut  off  a  man’s,  or  even  an  in¬ 
nocent  child’s,  head  for  no  reason  whatever! 
In  wrath  he  tore  off  the  sheet  enveloping  his 
head,  and  behold  !  before  him  stood  Ivas. 
And  the  poor  child  crossed  his  little  hands,  and 
hung  his  head.  .  .  .  Petro  flew  upon  the  witch 
with  the  knife  like  a  madman,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  laying  hands  on  her.  .  .  . 

“What  did  you  promise  for  the  girl?”  .  .  . 
thundered  Basavriuk;  and  like  a  shot  he  was  on 
his  back.  The  witch  stamped  her  foot  :  a  blue 
flame  flashed  from  the  earth  ;  it  illumined  it  all 
inside,  and  it  was  as  if  moulded  of  crystal ;  and 
all  that  was  within  the  earth  became  visible,  as 
if  in  the  palm  of  the  hand.  Ducats,  precious 
stones  in  chests  and  kettles,  were  piled  in 
heaps  beneath  the  very  spot  they  stood  on. 
His  eyes  burned,  .  .  .  his  mind  grew  troubled. 
.  .  .  He  grasped  the  knife  like  a  madman,  and 
the  innocent  blood  spurted  into  his  eyes.  Dia¬ 
bolical  laughter  resounded  on  all  sides.  Mis¬ 
shaped  monsters  flew  past  him  in  herds.  The 
witch,  fastening  her  hands  in  the  headless 
trunk,  like  a  wolf,  drank  its  blood.  .  .  .  All 
went  round  in  his  head.  Collecting  all  his 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


39 


I 

strength,  he  set  out  to  run.  Every  thing 
turned  red  before  him.  The  trees  seemed 
steeped  in  blood,  and  burned  and  groaned. 
The  sky  glowed  and  glowered.  .  .  .  Burning 
points,  like  lightning,  flickered  before  his  eyes. 
Utterly  exhausted,  he  rushed  into  his  miserable 
hovel,  and  fell  to  the  ground  like  a  log.  A 
death-like  sleep  overpowered  him. 

Two  days  and  two  nights  did  Petro  sleep, 
without  once  awakening.  When  he  came  to 
himself,  on  the  third  day,  he  looked  long  at  all 
the  corners  of  his  hut ;  but  in  vain  did  he  en¬ 
deavor  to  recollect ;  his  memory  was  like  a 
miser’s  pocket,  from  which  you  cannot  entice 
a  quarter  of  a  kopek.  Stretching  himself,  he 
heard  something  clash  at  his  feet.  He  looked, 
—  two  bags  of  gold.  Then  only,  as  if  in  a 
dream,  he  recollected  that  he  had  been  seeking 
some  treasure,  that  something  had  frightened 
him  in  the  woods.  .  .  .  But  at  what  price  he 
had  obtained  it,  and  how,  he  could  by  no  means 
understand. 

Korzh  saw  the  sacks,  —  and  was  mollified. 
“  Such  a  Petrus,  quite  unheard  of  !  yes,  and 
did  I  not  love  him  ?  Was  he  not  to  me  as  my 


40 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


own  son  ? ”  And  the  old  fellow  carried  on  his 
fiction  until  it  reduced  him  to  tears.  Pidorka 
began  to  tell  him  how  some  passing  gypsies 
had  stolen  Ivas ;  but  Petro  could  not  even 
recall  him  —  to  such  a  degree  had  the  Devil’s 
influence  darkened  his  mind  !  There  was  no 
reason  for  delay.  The  Pole  was  dismissed,  and 
the  wedding-feast  prepared  ;  rolls  were  baked, 
towels  and  handkerchiefs  embroidered ;  the 
young  people  were  seated  at  table ;  the  wed¬ 
ding-loaf  was  cut ;  banduras,  cymbals,  pipes, 
kobzi,  sounded,  and  pleasure  was  rife.  .  .  . 

A  wedding  in  the  olden  times  was  not  like 
one  of  the  present  day.  My  grandfather’s 
aunt  used  to  tell — what  doings! — how  the 
maidens — in  festive  head-dresses  of  yellow, 
blue,  and  pink  ribbons,  above  which  they  bound 
gold  braid  ;  in  thin  chemisettes  embroidered  on 
all  the  seams  with  red  silk,  and  strewn  with  tiny 
silver  flowers ;  in  morocco  shoes,  with  high  iron 
heels — danced  the  gorlitza  as  swimmingly  as 
peacocks,  and  as  wildly  as  the  whirlwind ;  how 
the  youths  —  with  their  ship-shaped  caps  upon 
their  heads,  the  crowns  of  gold  brocade,  with 
a  little  slit  at  the  nape  where  the  hair-net 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


41 


peeped  through,  and  two  horns  projecting,  one 
in  front  and  another  behind,  of  the  very  finest 
black  lambskin  ;  in  kuntushas  of  the  finest  blue 
silk  with  red  borders  —  stepped  forward  one 
by  one,  their  arms  akimbo  in  stately  form,  and 
executed  the  gopak  ;  how  the  lads  —  in  tall  Cos¬ 
sack  caps,  and  light  cloth  svitkas,  girt  with  sil¬ 
ver  embroidered  belts,  their  short  pipes  in  their 
teeth — skipped  before  them,  and  talked  non¬ 
sense.  Even  Korzh  could  not  contain  himself, 
as  he  gazed  at  the  young  people,  from  getting 
gay  in  his  old  age.  Bandura  in  hand,  alter¬ 
nately  puffing  at  his  pipe  and  singing,  a  brandy- 
glass  upon  his  head,  the  gray-beard  began  the 
national  dance  amid  loud  shouts  from  the 
merry-makers.  What  will  not  people  devise  in 
merry  mood !  They  even  began  to  disguise 
their  faces.  They  did  not  look  like  human 
beings.  They  are  not  to  be  compared  with 
the  disguises  which  we  have  at  our  weddings 
nowadays.  What  do  they  do  now  ?  Why,  imi¬ 
tate  gypsies  and  Moscow  pedlers.  No!  then 
one  used  to  dress  himself  as  a  Jew,  another  as 
the  Devil :  they  would  begin  by  kissing  each 
other,  and  end  by  seizing  each  other  by  the 


42 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


hair.  .  .  .  God  be  with  them  !  you  laughed  till 
you  held  your  sides.  They  dressed  themselves 
in  Turkish  and  Tatar  garments.  All  upon 
them  glowed  like  a  conflagration,  .  .  .  and 
then  they  began  to  joke  and  play  pranks.  .  .  . 
Well,  then  away  with  the  saints  ! 

An  amusing  thing  happened  to  my  grand¬ 
father’s  aunt,  who  was  at  this  wedding.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  voluminous  Tatar  robe,  and, 
wineglass  in  hand,  was  entertaining  the  com¬ 
pany.  The  Evil  One  instigated  one  man  to 
pour  vodka  over  her  from  behind.  Another, 
at  the  same  moment,  evidently  not  by  acci¬ 
dent,  struck  a  light,  and  touched  it  to  her ; 
.  .  .  the  flame  flashed  up  ;  poor  aunt,  in  ter¬ 
ror,  flung  her  robe  from  her,  before  them  all. 
.  .  .  Screams,  laughter,  jests,  arose,  as  if  at  a 
fair.  In  a  word,  the  old  folks  could  not  recall 
so  merry  a  wedding. 

Pidorka  and  Petrus  began  to  live  like  a  gen¬ 
tleman  and  lady.  There  was  plenty  of  every 
thing,  and  every  thing  was  handsome.  .  .  . 
But  honest  people  shook  their  heads  when  they 
looked  at  their  way  of  living.  “From  the 
Devil  no  good  can  come,”  they  unanimously 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


43 


agreed.  “  Whence,  except  from  the  tempter 
of  orthodox  people,  came  this  wealth  ?  Where 
else  could  he  get  such  a  lot  of  gold  ?  Why, 
on  the  very  day  that  he  got  rich,  did  Basavriuk 
vanish  as  if  into  thin  air  ?  ”  Say,  if  you  can, 
that  people  imagine  things  !  In  fact,  a  month 
had  not  passed,  and  no  one  would  have  recog¬ 
nized  Petrus.  Why,  what  had  happened  to 
him  ?  God  knows.  He  sits  in  one  spot,  and 
says  no  word  to  any  one  :  he  thinks  continu¬ 
ally,  and  seems  to  be  trying  to  recall  some¬ 
thing.  When  Pidorka  succeeds  in  getting  him 
to  speak,  he  seems  to  forget  himself,  carries 
on  a  conversation,  and  even  grows  cheerful ; 
but  if  he  inadvertently  glances  at  the  sacks, 
“  Stop,  stop  !  I  have  forgotten,”  he  cries,  and 
again  plunges  into  revery,  and  again  strives  to 
recall  something.  Sometimes  when  he  has  sat 
long  in  a  place,  it  seems  to  him  as  though  it 
were  coming,  just  coming  back  to  mind,  .  .  . 
and  again  all  fades  away.  It  seems  as  if  he  is 
sitting  in  the  tavern  :  they  bring  him  vodka ; 
vodka  stings  him  ;  vodka  is  repulsive  to  him. 
Some  one  comes  along,  and  strikes  him  on  the 
shoulder ;  .  .  .  but  beyond  that  every  thing  is 


44 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


veiled  in  darkness  before  him.  The  perspira¬ 
tion  streams  down  his  face,  and  he  sits  ex¬ 
hausted  in  the  same  place. 

What  did  not  Pidorka  do  ?  She  consulted 
the  sorceress ;  and  they  poured  out  fear,  and 
brewed  stomach  ache,1  —  but  all  to  no  avail. 
And  so  the  summer  passed.  Many  a  Cossack 
had  mowed  and  reaped  :  many  a  Cossack, 
more  enterprising  than  the  rest,  had  set  off 
upon  an  expedition.  Flocks  of  ducks  were 
already  crowding  our  marshes,  but  there  was 
not  even  a  hint  of  improvement. 

It  was  red  upon  the  steppes.  Ricks  of 
grain,  like  Cossacks’  caps,  dotted  the  fields 
here  and  there.  On  the  highway  were  to  be 
encountered  wagons  loaded  with  brushwood 
and  logs.  The  ground  had  become  more  solid, 
and  in  places  was  touched  with  frost.  Already 


1  “To  pour  out  fear,”  is  done  with  us  in  case  of  fear;  when  it  is 
desired  to  know  what  caused  it,  melted  lead  or  wax  is  poured  into 
water,  and  the  object  whose  form  it  assumes  is  the  one  which  fright¬ 
ened  the  sick  person ;  after  this,  the  fear  departs.  Sonyashnitza  is 
brewed  for  giddiness,  and  pain  in  the  bowels.  To  this  end,  a  bit  of 
stump  is  burned,  thrown  into  a  jug,  and  turned  upside  down  into  a 
bowl  filled  with  water,  which  is  placed  on  the  patient’s  stomach :  after 
an  incantation,  he  is  given  a  spoonful  of  this  water  to  drink. 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


45 


had  the  snow  begun  to  besprinkle  the  sky, 
and  the  branches  of  the  trees  were  covered 
with  rime  like  rabbit-skin.  Already  on  frosty 
days  the  red-breasted  finch  hopped  about  on 
the  snow-heaps  like  a  foppish  Polish  nobleman, 
and  picked  out  grains  of  corn  ;  and  children, 
with  huge  sticks,  chased  wooden  tops  upon 
the  ice  ;  while  their  fathers  lay  quietly  on  the 
stove,  issuing  forth  at  intervals  with  lighted 
pipes  in  their  lips,  to  growl,  in  regular  fashion, 
at  the  orthodox  frost,  or  to  take  the  air,  and 
thresh  the  grain  spread  out  in  the  barn.  At 
last  the  snow  began  to  melt,  and  the  ice  rind 
slipped  away:  but  Petro  remained  the  same; 
and,  the  longer  it  went  on,  the  more  morose 
he  grew.  He  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  cottage 
as  though  nailed  to  the  spot,  with  the  sacks 
of  gold  at  his  feet.  He  grew  shy,  his  hair 
grew  long,  he  became  terrible  ;  and  still  he 
thought  of  but  one  thing,  still  he  tried  to 
recall  something,  and  got  angry  and  ill-tem¬ 
pered  because  he  could  not  recall  it.  Often, 
rising  wildly  from  his  seat,  he  gesticulates  vio¬ 
lently,  fixes  his  eyes  on  something  as  though 
desirous  of  catching  it :  his  lips  move  as 


46 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


though  desirous  of  uttering  some  long-forgot¬ 
ten  word  —  and  remain  speechless.  Fury  takes 
possession  of  him :  he  gnaws  and  bites  his 
hands  like  a  man  half  crazy,  and  in  his  vexa¬ 
tion  tears  out  his  hair  by  the  handful,  until, 
calming  down,  he  falls  into  forgetfulness,  as  it 
were,  and  again  begins  to  recall,  and  is  again 
seized  with  fury  and  fresh  tortures.  .  .  .  What 
visitation  of  God  is  this  ? 

Pidorka  was  neither  dead  nor  alive.  At  first 
it  was  horrible  to  her  to  remain  alone  in  the 
cottage  ;  but,  in  course  of  time,  the  poor  woman 
grew  accustomed  to  her  sorrow.  But  it  was 
impossible  to  recognize  the  Pidorka  of  former 
days.  No  blush,  no  smile:  she  was  thin  and 
worn  with  grief,  and  had  wept  her  bright  eyes 
away.  Once,  some  one  who  evidently  took  pity 
on  her,  advised  her  to  go  to  the  witch  who 
dwelt  in  the  Bear’s  ravine,  and  enjoyed  the 
reputation  of  being  able  to  cure  every  disease 
in  the  world.  She  determined  to  try  this  last 
remedy  :  word  by  word  she  persuaded  the  old 
woman  to  come  to  her.  This  was  St.  John’s 
Eve,  as  it  chanced.  Petro  lay  insensible  on 
the  bench,  and  did  not  observe  the  new-comer. 


47 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 

Little  by  little  he  rose,  and  looked  about  him. 
Suddenly  he  trembled  in  every  limb,  as  though 
he  were  on  the  scaffold  :  his  hair  rose  upon  his 
head,  .  .  .  and  he  laughed  such  a  laugh  as 
pierced  Pidorka’s  heart  with  fear.  “  I  have 
remembered,  remembered  !  ”  he  cried  in  terri¬ 
ble  joy  ;  and,  swinging  a  hatchet  round  his  head, 
he  flung  it  at  the  old  woman  with  all  his  might. 
The  hatchet  penetrated  the  oaken  door  two 
vershok  (three  inches  and  a  half).  The  old 
woman  disappeared  ;  and  a  child  of  seven  in  a 
white  blouse,  with  covered  head,  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  cottage.  .  .  .  The  sheet  flew 
off.  “Ivas!”  cried  Pidorka,  and  ran  to  him; 
but  the  apparition  became  covered  from  head 
to  foot  with  blood,  and  illumined  the  whole 
room  with  red  light.  .  .  .  She  ran  into  the 
passage  in  her  terror,  but,  on  recovering  herself 
a  little,  wished  to  help  him  ;  in  vain  !  the  door 
had  slammed  to  behind  her  so  securely  that  she 
could  not  open  it.  People  ran  up,  and  began  to 
knock  :  they  broke  in  the  door,  as  though  there 
were  but  one  mind  among  them.  The  whole 
cottage  was  full  of  smoke ;  and  just  in  the 
middle,  where  Petrus  had  stood,  was  a  heap  of 


48 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


ashes,  from  which  smoke  was  still  rising.  They 
flung  themselves  upon  the  sacks  :  only  broken 
potsherds  lay  there  instead  of  ducats.  The 
Cossacks  stood  with  staring  eyes  and  open 
mouths,  not  daring  to  move  a  hair,  as  if  rooted 
to  the  earth,  such  terror  did  this  wonder  inspire 
in  them. 

I  do  not  remember  what  happened  next. 
Pidorka  took  a  vow  to  go  upon  a  pilgrimage, 
collected  the  property  left  her  by  her  father, 
and  in  a  few  days  it  was  as  if  she  had  never 
been  in  the  village.  Whither  she  had  gone,  no 
one  could  tell.  Officious  old  women  would  have 
despatched  her  to  the  same  place  whither  Petro 
had  gone ;  but  a  Cossack  from  Kief  reported 
that  he  had  seen,  in  a  cloister,  a  nun  withered 
to  a  mere  skeleton,  who  prayed  unceasingly ; 
and  her  fellow  -  villagers  recognized  her  as 
Pidorka,  by  all  the  signs,  —  that  no  one  had 
ever  heard  her  utter  a  word  ;  that  she  had 
come  on  foot,  and  had  brought  a  frame  for  the 
ikon  of  God’s  mother,  set  with  such  brilliant 
stones  that  all  were  dazzled  at  the  sight. 

But  this  was  not  the  end,  if  you  please.  On 
the  same  day  that  the  Evil  One  made  way  with 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


49 


Petrus,  Basavriuk  appeared  again ;  but  all  fled 
from  him.  They  knew  what  sort  of  a  bird  he 
was,  —  none  else  than  Satan,  who  had  assumed 
human  form  in  order  to  unearth  treasures  ;  and, 
since  treasures  do  not  yield  to  unclean  hands, 
he  seduced  the  young.  That  same  year,  all 
deserted  their  earth  huts,  and  collected  in  a 
village ;  but,  even  there,  there  was  no  peace,  on 
account  of  that  accursed  Basavriuk.  My  late 
grandfather’s  aunt  said  that  he  was  particularly 
angry  with  her,  because  she  had  abandoned  her 
former  tavern,  and  tried  with  all  his  might  to 
revenge  himself  upon  her.  Once  the  village 
elders  were  assembled  in  the  tavern,  and,  as  the 
saying  goes,  were  arranging  the  precedence  at 
the  table,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  placed  a 
small  roasted  lamb,  shame  to  say.  They  chat¬ 
tered  about  this,  that,  and  the  other, — among 
the  rest  about  various  marvels  and  strange 
things.  Well,  they  saw  something ;  it  would 
have  been  nothing  if  only  one  had  seen  it,  but 
all  saw  it ;  and  it  was  this  :  the  sheep  raised 
his  head  ;  his  goggling  eyes  became  alive  and 

i 

sparkled ;  and  the  black,  bristling  mustache, 
which  appeared  for  one  instant,  made  a  sig- 


50 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 


nificant  gesture  at  those  present.  All,  at  once, 
recognized  Basavriuk’s  countenance  in  the 
sheep’s  head  :  my  grandfather’s  aunt  thought 
it  was  on  the  point  of  asking  for  vodka.  .  .  . 
The  worthy  elders  seized  their  hats,  and  has¬ 
tened  home. 

Another  time,  the  church  starost  1  himself, 
who  was  fond  of  an  occasional  private  interview 
with  my  grandfather’s  brandy-glass,  had  not 
succeeded  in  getting  to  the  bottom  twice,  when 
he  beheld  the  glass  bowing  very  low  to  him. 
“  Satan  take  you,  let  us  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross  over  you!”  .  .  .  And  the  same  marvel 
happened  to  his  better  half.  She  had  just 
begun  to  mix  the  dough  in  a  huge  kneading- 
trough,  when  suddenly  the  trough  sprang  up. 
“  Stop,  stop!  where  are  you  going?”  Putting 
its  arms  akimbo,  with  dignity,  it  went  skipping 
all  about  the  cottage.  ...  You  may  laugh,  but 
it  was  no  laughing-matter  to  our  grandfathers. 
And  in  vain  did  Father  Athanasii  go  through 
all  the  village  with  holy  water,  and  chase  the 
Devil  through  all  the  streets  with  his  brush; 
and  my  late  grandfather’s  aunt  long  complained, 


1  Elder. 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE . 


51 


that,  as  soon  as  it  was  dark,  some  one  came 
knocking  at  her  door,  and  scratching  at  the 
wall. 

Well !  All  appears  to  be  quiet  now,  in  the 
place  where  our  village  stands  ;  but  it  was  not 
so  very  long  ago  —  my  father  was  still  alive  — 
that  I  remember  how  a  good  man  could  not 
pass  the  ruined  tavern,  which  a  dishonest  race 
had  long  managed  for  their  own  interest. 
From  the  smoke-blackened  chimneys,  smoke 
poured  out  in  a  pillar,  and  rising  high  in  the 
air,  as  if  to  take  an  observation,  rolled  off  like 
a  cap,  scattering  burning  coals  over  the  steppe; 
and  Satan  (the  son  of  a  dog  should  not  be 
mentioned)  sobbed  so  pitifully  in  his  lair,  that 
the  startled  ravens  rose  in  flocks  from  the 
neighboring  oak-wood,  and  flew  through  the  air 
with  wild  cries. 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS.1 


I  am  very  fond  of  the  modest  life  of  those 
isolated  owners  of  distant  villages,  which  are 
usually  called  “  old-fashioned  ”  in  Little  Russia, 
and  which,  like  ruinous  and  picturesque  houses, 
are  beautiful  through  their  simplicity,  and  com¬ 
plete  contrast  to  a  new,  regular  building,  whose 
walls  the  rain  has  never  yet  washed,  whose  roof 
is  not  yet  covered  with  mould,  and  whose  porch, 
undeprived  of  its  stucco,  does  not  yet  show  its 
red  bricks.  I  love  sometimes  to  enter  for  a 
moment  the  sphere  of  this  unusually  isolated 

1  This  is  the  first  story  in  the  volume  entitled  “  Mirgorod,”  which 
forms  a  continuation  of  the  “  Tales  at  a  Farmhouse  near  Dikanka.” 
The  introduction  consists  of  the  two  following  quotations  :  — 

“Mirgorod  is  a  large  town  of  great  importance  situated  on  the 
river  Khorol.  It  has  one  rope-walk,  one  brick-yard,  four  water  and 
forty-five  wind  mills.”  —  Zyablovsky's  Geography . 

“  Though  the  bubliki  [cracknels]  are  made  of  black  dough  in 
Mirgorod,  they  are  quite  savory.” — Extract  from  the  Journal  of  a 
T rave  tier. 


53 


54 


OLD-FASIIIONED  FARMERS. 


life,  where  no  wish  flies  beyond  the  palings 
surrounding  the  little  yard,  beyond  the  hedge 
of  the  garden  filled  with  apples  and  plums, 
beyond  the  izbas  of  the  village  surrounding  it, 
having  on  one  side,  shaded  by  willows,  elder- 
bushes  and  pear-trees.  The  life  of  the  modest 
owners  is  so  quiet,  so  quiet,  that  you  forget 
yourself  for  a  moment,  and  think  that  the  pas¬ 
sions,  wishes,  and  the  uneasy  offspring  of  the 
Evil  One,  which  keep  the  world  in  an  uproar, 
do  not  exist  at  all,  and  that  you  have  only  be¬ 
held  them  in  some  brilliant,  dazzling  vision. 

I  can  see  now  the  low-roofed  little  house, 
with  its  veranda  of  slender,  blackened  tree- 
trunks,  surrounding  it  on  all  sides,  so  that,  in 
case  of  a  thunder  or  hail  storm,  the  window- 
shutters  could  be  shut  without  your  getting 
wet  ;  behind  it,  fragrant  wild-cherry  trees, 
whole  rows  of  dwarf  fruit-trees,  overtopped  by 
crimson  cherries  and  a  purple  sea  of  plums, 
covered  with  a  lead-colored  bloom,  luxuriant 
maples,  under  the  shade  of  which  rugs  were 
spread  for  repose ;  in  front  of  the  house  the 
spacious  yard,  with  short,  fresh  grass,  through 
which  paths  had  been  trodden  from  the  store- 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


55 


houses  to  the  kitchen,  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
apartments  of  the  family ;  a  long-legged  goose 
drinking  water,  with  her  young  goslings,  soft  as 
down  ;  the  picket-fence  hung  with  bunches  of 
dried  pears  and  apples,  and  rugs  put  out  to  air ; 
a  cart  full  of  melons  standing  near  the  store¬ 
house  ;  the  oxen  unyoked,  and  lying  lazily  be¬ 
side  it.  All  this  has  for  me  an  indescribable 
charm,  perhaps  because  I  no  longer  see  it,  and 
because  any  thing  from  which  we  are  separated 
is  pleasing  to  us.  However  that  may  be,  from 
the  moment  that  my  britchka  drove  up  to  the 
porch  of  this  little  house,  my  soul  entered 
into  a  wonderfully  pleasant  and  peaceful  state  : 
the  horses  trotted  merrily  up  to  the  porch  ;  the 
coachman  climbed  very  quietly  down  from  the 
seat,  and  filled  his  pipe,  as  though  he  had 
arrived  at  his  own  house  ;  the  very  bark  which 
the  phlegmatic  dogs  set  up,  was  soothing  to 
my  ears. 

But  more  than  all  else,  the  owners  of  this 
isolated  nook,  —  an  old  man  and  old  woman, — 
hastening  anxiously  out  to  meet  me,  FjpS 
me.  Their  faces  present  themsel^^^^^^^ 
even  now,  sometimes,  in  the 


56 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


motion,  amid  fashionable  dress-suits  ;  and  then 
suddenly  a  half-dreaming  state  overpowers  me, 
and  the  past  flits  before  me.  On  their  coun¬ 
tenances  are  always  depicted  such  goodness, 


such  cheerfulness,  and  purity  of  heart,  that 
you  involuntarily  renounce,  if  only  for  a  brief 
space  of  time,  all  bold  conceptions,  and  imper¬ 
ceptibly  enter  with  all  your  feelings  into  this 
lowly  bucolic  life. 

To  this  day  I  cannot  forget  two  old  people 
of  the  last  century,  who  are,  alas  !  no  more ; 
but  my  heart  is  still  full  of  pity,  and  my  feel¬ 
ings  are  strangely  moved  when  I  fancy  myself 
driving  up  sometimes  to  their  former  dwelling, 
now  deserted,  and  see  the  cluster  of  decaying 
cottages,  the  weedy  pond,  and,  where  the  little 
house  used  to  stand,  an  overgrown  pit,  and 
nothing  more.  It  is  melancholy.  But  let  us 
return  to  our  story. 

Athanasii  Ivanovitch  Tovstogub,  and  his  wife 
Pulcheria  Ivanovna  Tovstogubikha,  according 
to  the  neighboring  muzhiks’  way  of  putting  it, 
'•<^'^he  old  people  whom  I  began  to  tell  about. 
f;;£merca  painter,  and  wished  to  represent 
!T:; on  canvas,  I  could  have 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


57 


found  no  better  models  than  they.  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch  was  sixty  years  old,  Pulcheria  Ivan¬ 
ovna  was  fifty-five.  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  was 
tall,  always  wore  a  sheepskin  jacket  covered 
with  camel’s  hair,  sat  all  doubled  up,  and  was 
almost  always  smiling,  whether  he  was  telling 
a  story  or  only  listening.  Pulcheria  Ivanovna 
was  rather  serious,  and  hardly  ever  laughed ; 
but  her  face  and  eyes  expressed  so  much  good¬ 
ness,  so  much  readiness  to  treat  you  to  all  the 
best  they  owned,  that  you  would  probably  have 
found  a  smile  too  repellingly  sweet  for  her  kind 
face.  The  delicate  wrinkles  were  so  agreeably 
disposed  upon  their  countenances,  that  an  artist 
would  certainly  have  appropriated  them.  It 
seemed  as  though  you  might  read  their  whole 
life  in  them,  the  pure,  peaceful  life,  led  by  the 
old  patriotic,  simple-hearted,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  wealthy  families,  which  always  offer  a 
contrast  to  those  baser  Little  Russians,  who 
work  up  from  tar-burners  and  pedlers,  throng 
the  court-rooms  like  grasshoppers,  squeeze  the 
last  kopek  from  their  fellow-countrymen,  crowd 
Petersburg  with  scandal-mongers,  finally  acquire 
a  capital,  and  triumphantly  add  an  f  to  their 


58 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


surnames  ending  in  o.  No,  they  did  not  re¬ 
semble  those  despicable  and  miserable  crea¬ 
tures,  but  all  ancient  and  native  Little  Russian 
families. 

It  was  impossible  to  behold  without  sympathy 
their  mutual  affection.  They  never  called  each 
other  thou ,  but  always  you ,  —  “  You,  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch  “  You,  Pulcheria  Ivanovna.” 

“  Was  it  you  who  sold  the  chair,  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch  ?  ” 

“No  matter.  Don’t  you  be  angry,  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna  :  it  was  I.” 

They  never  had  any  children,  so  all  their 
affection  was  concentrated  upon  themselves. 
At  one  time,  in  his  youth,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch 
served  in  the  militia,  and  was  afterwards  brevet- 
major  ;  but  that  was  very  long  ago,  and  Athana¬ 
sii  Ivanovitch  hardly  ever  thought  of  it  himself. 
Athanasii  Ivanovitch  married  at  thirty,  while  he 
was  still  young,  and  wore  embroidered  waist¬ 
coats.  He  even  very  cleverly  abducted  Pulche¬ 
ria  Ivanovna,  whose  parents  did  not  wish  to  give 
her  to  him  :  but  this,  too,  he  recollected  very 
little  about ;  at  least,  he  never  mentioned  it. 

All  these  long-past  and  unusual  events  had 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


59 


given  place  to  a  quiet  and  lonely  life,  to  those 
dreamy  yet  harmonious  fancies  which  you  ex- 
perience  seated  on  a  country  balcony  facing  the 
garden,  when  the  beautiful  rain  patters  luxu¬ 
riously  on  the  leaves,  flows  in  murmuring 
rivulets,  inclining  your  limbs  to  repose,  and 
meanwhile  the  rainbow  creeps  from  behind  the 
trees,  and  its  arch  shines  dully  with  its  seven 
hues  in  the  sky  ;  or  when  your  calash  rolls  on, 
pushing  its  way  among  green  bushes,  and  the 
quail  calls,  and  the  fragrant  grass,  with  the  ears 
of  grain  and  field-flowers,  creeps  into  the  door 
of  your  carriage,  pleasantly  striking  against 
your  hands  and  face. 

He  always  listened  with  a  pleasant  smile  to 
his  guests  :  sometimes  he  talked  himself,  but 
generally  he  asked  questions.  He  was  not  one 
of  the  old  men  who  weary  you  with  praises  of 
the  old  times,  and  complaints  of  the  new  :  on 
the  contrary,  as  he  put  questions  to  you,  he 
exhibited  the  greatest  curiosity  about,  and 
sympathy  with,  the  circumstances  of  your  life, 
your  success,  or  lack  of  success,  in  which  kind 
old  men  usually  are  interested;  although  it 
closely  resembles  the  curiosity  of  a  child,  who 


6o 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


examines  the  seal  on  your  fob  while  he  is  asking 
his  questions.  Then,  it  might  be  said  that  his 
face  beamed  with  kindness. 

The  rooms  of  the  little  house  in  which  our 
old  people  lived  were  small,  low-studded,  such 
as  are  generally  to  be  seen  with  old-fashioned 
people.  In  each  room  stood  a  huge  stove, 
which  occupied  nearly  one-third  of  the  space. 
These  little  rooms  were  frightfully  warm,  be¬ 
cause  both  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  and  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna  were  fond  of  heat.  All  their  fuel 
was  stored  in  the  vestibule,  which  was  always 
filled  nearly  to  the  ceiling  with  straw,  which  is 
generally  used  in  Little  Russia  in  the  place  of 
wood.  The  crackling  and  blaze  of  burning 
straw  render  the  ante-rooms  extremely  pleasant 
on  winter  evenings,  when  some  lively  youth, 
chilled  with  his  pursuit  of  some  brunette  maid, 
rushes  in,  beating  his  hands  together. 

The  walls  of  the  rooms  were  adorned  with 
pictures  in  narrow,  old-fashioned  frames.  I  am 
positive  that  their  owners  had  long  ago  for¬ 
gotten  their  subjects  ;  and,  if  some  of  them  had 
been  carried  off,  they  probably  would  not  have 
noticed  it.  Two  of  them  were  large  portraits 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


6l 


in  oil :  one  represented  some  bishop  ;  the  other, 
Peter  III.  From  a  narrow  frame  gazed  the 
Duchess  of  La  Valliere,  spotted  by  flies. 
Around  the  windows  and  above  the  doors  were 
a  multitude  of  small  pictures,  which  you  grow 
accustomed  to  regard  as  spots  on  the  wall,  and 
which  you  never  look  at.  The  floor  in  nearly 
all  the  rooms  was  of  clay,  but  smoothly  plas¬ 
tered  down,  and  more  cleanly  kept  than  any 
polished  floor  of  wood  in  a  wealthy  house,  lan¬ 
guidly  swept  by  a  sleepy  gentleman  in  livery. 
Pulcheria  Ivanovna’s  room  was  all  furnished 
with  chests  and  boxes,  and  little  chests  and 
little  boxes.  A  multitude  of  little  packages  and 
bags,  containing  seeds,  —  flower-seeds,  vege¬ 
table-seeds,  watermelon-seeds, — hung  on  the 
walls.  A  great  many  balls  of  various  colored 
woollens,  scraps  of  old  dresses,  sewed  together 
during  half  a  century,  were  stuffed  away  in  the 
corners,  in  the  chests,  and  between  the  chests. 
Pulcheria  Ivanovna  was  a  famous  housewife, 
and  saved  up  every  thing ;  though  she  some¬ 
times  did  not  know  herself  what  use  she  could 
ever  make  of  it. 

But  the  most  noticeable  thing  about  the 


\ 


62 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


house  was  the  singing  doors.  Just  as  soon 
as  day  arrived,  the  songs  of  the  doors  resounded 
throughout  the  house.  I  cannot  say  why  they 
sang.  Either  the  rusty  hinges  were  the  cause, 
or  else  the  mechanic  who  made  them  concealed 
some  secret  in  them  ;  but  it  was  worthy  of  note, 
that  each  door  had  its  own  particular  voice : 
the  door  leading  to  the  bedroom  sang  the  thin¬ 
nest  of  sopranos  ;  the  dining-room  door  growled 
a  bass  ;  but  the  one  which  led  into  the  vestibule 
gave  out  a  strange,  quavering,  yet  groaning 
sound,  so  that,  if  you  listened  to  it,  you  heard  at 
last,  quite  clearly,  “  Batiushka,  I  am  freezing.” 
I  know  that  this  noise  is  very  displeasing  to 
many,  but  I  am  very  fond  of  it ;  and  if  I  chance 
to  hear  a  door  squeak,  here,  I  seem  to  see  the 
country  ;  the  low-ceiled  chamber,  lighted  by  a 
candle  in  an  old-fashioned  candlestick;  the  sup¬ 
per  on  the  table  ;  May  darkness  ;  night  peeping 
in  from  the  garden  through  the  open  windows 
upon  the  table  set  with  dishes ;  the  nightin¬ 
gale,  which  floods  the  garden,  house,  and  the 

% 

distant  river  with  her  trills ;  the  rustle  and  the 
murmuring  of  the  boughs,  .  .  .  and,  O  God! 
what  a  long  chain  of  reminiscences  is  woven  ! 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


63 


The  chairs  in  the  room  were  of  wood,  and 
massive,  in  the  style  which  generally  distin¬ 
guished  those  of  olden  times ;  all  had  high, 
turned  backs  of  natural  wood,  without  any 
paint  or  varnish ;  they  were  not  even  uphol¬ 
stered,  and  somewhat  resembled  those  which 
are  still  used  by  bishops.  Three-cornered  tables 
stood  in  the  corners,  a  square  one  before  the 
sofa  ;  and  there  was  a  large  mirror  in  a  thin  gold 
frame,  carved  in  leaves,  which  the  flies  had 
covered  with  black  spots  ;  in  front  of  the  sofa 
was  a  mat  with  flowers  resembling  birds,  and 
birds  resembling  flowers  :  and  this  constituted 
nearly  the  whole  furniture  of  the  far  from  ele¬ 
gant  little  house  where  my  old  people  lived. 
The  maids’  room  was  filled  with  young  and 
elderly  serving-women  in  striped  petticoats,  to 
whom  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  sometimes  gave  some 
trifles  to  sew,  and  whom  she  made  pick  over 
berries,  but  who  ran  about  the  kitchen  or  slept 
the  greater  part  of  the  time.  Pulcheria  Ivan¬ 
ovna  regarded  it  as*  a  necessity  to  keep  them  in 
the  house ;  and  she  looked  strictly  after  their 
morals,  but  to  no  purpose. 

Upon  the  window-panes  buzzed  a  terrible 


64 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


number  of  flies,  overpowered  by  the  heavy  bass 
of  the  bumble-bee,  sometimes  accompanied  by 
the  penetrating  shriek  of  the  wasp ;  but,  as 
soon  as  the  candles  were  brought  in,  this  whole 
horde  betook  themselves  to  their  night  quar¬ 
ters,  and  covered  the  entire  ceiling  with  a  black 
cloud. 

Athanasii  Ivanovitch  very  rarely  occupied 
himself  with  the  farming ;  although  he  some¬ 
times  went  out  to  the  mowers  and  reapers, 
and  gazed  quite  intently  at  their  work.  All 
the  burden  of  management  devolved  upon  Pul- 
cheria  Ivanovna.  Pulcheria  Ivanovna’s  house¬ 
keeping  consisted  of  an  incessant  unlocking 
and  locking  of  the  storeroom,  in  salting,  dry¬ 
ing,  preserving  innumerable  quantities  of  fruits 
and  vegetables.  Her  house  was  exactly  like  a 
chemical  laboratory.  A  fire  was  constantly 
laid  under  the  apple-tree  ;  and  the  kettle  or  the 
brass  pan  with  preserves,  jelly,  marmalade,  — 
made  with  honey,  with  sugar,  and  I  know  not 
with  what  else, — was  hardly  ever  removed  from 
the  tripod.  Under  another  tree  the  coachman 
was  forever  distilling  vodka  with  peach-leaves, 
with  wild  cherry,  cherry-flowers,  gentian,  or 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


65 


cherry-stones  in  a  copper  still  ;  and,  at  the 
end  of  the  process,  he  never  was  able  to  con¬ 
trol  his  tongue,  chattered  all  sorts  of  nonsense, 
which  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  did  not  understand, 
and  took  himself  off  to  the  kitchen  to  sleep. 
Such  a  quantity  of  all  this  stuff  was  pre¬ 
served,  salted,  and  dried,  that  it  would  proba¬ 
bly  have  overwhelmed  the  whole  yard  at  last 
(for  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  loved  to  lay  in  a  store 
beyond  what  was  calculated  for  consumption), 
if  the  greater  part  of  it  had  not  been  devoured 
by  the  maid-servants,  who  crept  into  the  store¬ 
room,  and  over-ate  themselves  to  such  a  fearful 
extent,  that  they  groaned  and  complained  of 
their  stomachs  for  a  whole  day  afterwards. 

It  was  less  possible  for  Pulcheria  Ivanovna 
to  attend  to  the  agricultural  department.  The 
steward  conspired  with  the  village  elder  to  rob 
in  the  most  shameless  manner.  They  had  got 
into  a  habit  of  going  to  their  master’s  forest  as 
though  to  their  own  ;  they  manufactured  a  lot 
of  sledges,  and  sold  them  at  the  neighboring 
fair ;  besides  which  they  sold  all  the  stout  oaks 
to  the  neighboring  Cossacks  for  beams,  for  a 
mill.  Only  once  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  wished  to 


66 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


inspect  her  forest.  For  this  purpose  the 
droshky,  with  its  huge  leather  apron,  was  har¬ 
nessed.  As  soon  as  the  coachman  shook  his 
reins,  and  the  horses  (which  had  served  in  the 
militia)  started,  it  filled  the  air  with  strange 
sounds,  as  though  fifes,  tambourines,  and  drums 
were  suddenly  audible :  every  nail  and  iron 
bolt  rattled  so,  that,  when  the  pani  drove  from 
the  door,  they  could  be  heard  clear  to  the  mill, 
although  that  was  not  less  than  two  versts 
away.  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  could  not  fail  to 
observe  the  terrible  havoc  in  the  forest,  and 
the  loss  of  oaks  which  she  recollected  from  her 
childhood  as  being  centuries  old. 

“Why  have  the  oaks  become  so  scarce, 
Nitchipor?”  she  said  to  the  steward,  who  was 
also  present.  “  See  that  the  hairs  on  your 
head  do  not  become  scarce.” 

“Why  are  they  scarce?”  said  the  steward. 
“  They  disappeared,  they  disappeared  alto¬ 
gether  :  the  lightning  struck  them,  and  the 
worms  ate  them.  They  disappeared,  pani,  they 
disappeared.” 

Pulcheria  Ivanovna  was  quite  satisfied  with 
this  answer,  and  on  returning  home  merely 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


67 


gave  orders  that  double  guards  should  be 
placed  over  the  Spanish  cherries  and  the  large 
winter-pear  trees  in  the  garden. 

These  worthy  managers  —  the  steward  and 
the  village  elder  —  considered  it  quite  unneces¬ 
sary  to  bring  all  the  flour  to  the  storehouses  at 
the  manor,  and  that  half  was  quite  sufficient 
for  the  masters ;  and  finally,  that  half  was 
brought  sprinkled  or  wet  through  —  what  had 
been  rejected  at  the  fair.  But  no  matter  how 
the  steward  and  village  elder  plundered,  or  how 
horribly  they  devoured  things  at  the  house, 
from  the  housekeeper  down  to  the  pigs,  who 
not  only  made  way  with  frightful  quantities  of 
plums  and  apples,  but  even  shook  the  trees  with 
their  snouts  in  order  to  bring  down  a  whole 
shower  of  fruit ;  no  matter  how  the  sparrows 
and  crows  pecked,  or  how  many  presents  the 
servants  carried  to  their  friends  in  other  vil¬ 
lages,  including  even  old  linen  and  yarn  from 
the  storeroom,  which  all  brought  up  eventually 
at  the  universal  source,  namely,  the  tavern  ;  no 
matter  how  guests,  phlegmatic  coachmen,  and 
lackeys  stole, — yet  the  fruitful  earth  yielded 
such  an  abundance,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  and 


68 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


Pulcheria  Ivanovna  needed  so  little,  that  all 
this  abominable  robbery  seemed  to  pass  quite 
unperceived  in  their  household. 

Both  the  old  folks,  in  accordance  with  old- 
fashioned  customs,  were  very  fond  of  eating. 
As  soon  as  daylight  dawned  (they  always  rose 
early),  and  the  doors  had  begun  their  many- 
toned  concert,  they  seated  themselves  at  table, 
and  drank  coffee.  When  Athanasii  Ivanovitch 
had  drunk  his  coffee,  he  went  out,  and,  flirt¬ 
ing  his  handkerchief,  said,  “  Kish,  kish !  go 
away  from  the  veranda,  geese  !  ”  In  the  yard 
he  generally  encountered  the  steward  :  he  usu¬ 
ally  entered  into  conversation  with  him,  in¬ 
quired  about  the  work  with  the  greatest 
minuteness,  and  communicated  such  a  number 
of  observations  and  orders  as  would  have 
caused  any  one  to  wonder  at  his  knowledge 
of  affairs  ;  and  no  novice  would  have  ventured 
to  suppose  that  such  an  acute  master  could 
be  robbed.  But  his  steward  was  a  clever  ras¬ 
cal  :  he  knew  well  what  answers  it  was  neces¬ 
sary  to  give,  and,  better  still,  how  to  manage 
things. 

After  this,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  returned  to 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


69 


the  room,  and  said,  approaching  Pulcheria  Ivan¬ 
ovna,  “Well,  Pulcheria  Ivanovna,  is  it  time  to 
eat  something,  perhaps  ?  ” 

“  What  shall  we  have  to  eat  now,  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch,  —  some  wheat  and  tallow  cakes,  or 
some  pies  with  poppy-seeds,  or  some  salted 
mushrooms  ?  ” 

“  Some  mushrooms,  then,  if  you  please,  or 
some  pies,”  replied  Athanasii  Ivanovitch;  and 
then  suddenly  a  table-cloth  would  make  its 
appearance  on  the  table,  with  the  pies  and 
mushrooms. 

An  hour  before  dinner,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch 
took  another  snack,  and  drank  vodka  from  an 
ancient  silver  cup,  ate  mushrooms,  divers  dried 
fish,  and  other  things.  They  sat  down  to  dine 
at  twelve  o’clock.  Besides  the  dishes  and 
sauce-boats,  there  stood  upon  the  table  a  multi¬ 
tude  of  pots  with  covers  pasted  on,  that  the 
appetizing  products  of  the  savory  old-fashioned 
cooking  might  not  be  exhaled  abroad.  At  din¬ 
ner  the  conversation  turned  upon  subjects 
closely  connected  with  the  meal. 

“  It  seems  to  me,”  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  gen¬ 
erally  observed,  “that  this  groats  is  burned  a 


70 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS, 


little.  Does  it  strike  you  so,  Pulcheria  Ivan¬ 
ovna  ?  ” 

“No,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  :  put  on  a  little 
more  butter,  and  then  it  will  not  taste  burned  ; 
or  take  this  mushroom  sauce,  and  pour  over  it.” 

“If  you  please,”  said  Athanasii  Ivanovitch, 
handing  his  plate,  “let  us  see  how  that  will 
do.” 

After  dinner  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  went  to 
lie  down  for  an  hour,  after  which  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna  brought  him  a  sliced  watermelon,  and 
said,  “  Here,  try  this,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  ;  see 
what  a  good  melon  it  is.” 

“Don’t  trust  it  because  it  is  red  in  the  centre, 
Pulcheria  Ivanovna,”  said  Athanasii  Ivanovitch, 
taking  a  good-sized  chunk.  “  Sometimes  they 
are  red,  but  not  good.” 

But  the  watermelon  slowly  disappeared. 
Then  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  ate  a  few  pears,  and 
went  out  for  a  walk  in  the  garden  with  Pul¬ 
cheria  Ivanovna.  On  returning  to  the  house, 
Pulcheria  went  about  her  own  affairs  :  but  he 
sat  down  on  the  veranda  facing  the  yard,  and 
observed  how  the  storeroom’s  interior  was  con¬ 
stantly  disclosed,  and  again  concealed ;  and 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


71 


how  the  girls  jostled  one  another  as  they  car¬ 
ried  in,  or  brought  out,  all  sorts  of  stuff  in 
wooden  boxes,  sieves,  trays,  and  other  recep¬ 
tacles  for  fruit.  After  waiting  a  while,  he  sent 
for  Pulcheria  Ivanovna,  or  went  to  her  himself, 
and  said,  “What  is  there  for  me  to  eat,  Pul¬ 
cheria  Ivanovna  ?  ” 

“What  is  there?”  said  Pulcheria  Ivanovna: 
“shall  I  go  and  tell  them  to  bring  you  some 
berry  tarts  which  I  had  set  aside  for  you  ?  ” 

“That  would  be  good,”  replied  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch. 

“  Or  perhaps  you  could  eat  some  kissel  ?  ”  1 

“That  is  good  too,”  replied  Athanasii  Ivan¬ 
ovitch  ;  whereupon  all  was  brought  immedi¬ 
ately,  and  eaten  in  due  course. 

Before  supper  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  took  an¬ 
other  snack.  At  half-past  nine  they  sat  down 
to  supper.  After  supper  they  went  directly  to 
bed,  and  universal  silence  settled  down  upon 
this  busy  yet  quiet  nook. 

The  chamber  in  which  Athanasii  Ivanovitch 
and  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  slept,  was  so  hot  that 
very  few  people  could  have  stayed  in  it  more 

1  Sourish  jelly. 


/ 


7  2 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


than  a  few  hours  :  but  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  for 
the  sake  of  more  warmth,  slept  upon  the  stove- 
bench  ;  although  the  excessive  heat  caused  him 
to  rise  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  night, 
and  walk  about  the  room.  Sometimes  Athan¬ 
asii  Ivanovitch  groaned  as  he  walked  about  the 
room. 

Then  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  inquired,  “  Why  do 
you  groan,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  ?” 

“God  knows,  Pulcheria  Ivanovna!  it  seems 
as  if  my  stomach  ached  a  little,”  said  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch. 

“  Hadn’t  you  better  eat  something,  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch  ?  ” 

“I  don’t  know,  —  perhaps  it  would  be  well, 
Pulcheria  Ivanovna:  by  the  way,  what  is  there 
to  eat  ?  ” 

“Sour  milk,  or  some  stewed  dried  pears.” 

“  If  you  please,  I  will  try  them,”  said  Athan¬ 
asii  Ivanovitch.  The  sleepy  maid  was  sent  to 
ransack  the  cupboards,  and  Athanasii  Ivan¬ 
ovitch  ate  a  plateful ;  after  which  he  remarked, 
“  Now  I  seem  to  feel  relieved.” 

Sometimes  when  the  weather  was  clear,  and 
the  rooms  were  very  much  heated,  Athanasii 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


73 


Ivanovitch  got  merry,  and  loved  to  tease  Pul- 
cheria  Ivanovna,  and  talk  of  something  out  of 
the  ordinary. 

“Well,  Pulcheria  Ivanovna,”  he  said,  “what 
if  our  house  were  to  suddenly  burn  down,  what 
would  become  of  us?” 

“God  forbid!”  ejaculated  Pulcheria  Ivan¬ 
ovna,  crossing  herself. 

“Well,  now,  just  suppose  a  case,  that  our 
house  should  burn  down.  Where  should  we  go 
then  ?  ” 

“God  knows  what  you  are  saying,  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch  !  How  could  our  house  burn  down  ? 
God  will  not  permit  that.” 

“  Well,  but  if  it  did  burn  ?  ” 

“Well,  then,  we  should  go  to  the  kitchen. 
You  could  occupy  for  a  time  the  room  which 
the  housekeeper  now  has.” 

“  But  if  the  kitchen  burned  too  ?  ” 

“The  idea!  God  will  preserve  us  from  such 
a  catastrophe  as  the  house  and  the  kitchen  both 
burning  down.  In  that  case,  we  could  go  into 
the  storehouse  while  a  new  house  was  being 
built.” 

“And  if  the  storehouse  burned  also  ?  ” 


74 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


“  God  knows  what  you  are  saying!  I  won’t 
listen  to  you  !  it  is  a  sin  to  talk  so,  and  God  will 
punish  you  for  such  speeches.” 

But  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  content  with  hav¬ 
ing  had  his  joke  over  Pulcheria  Ivanovna,  sat 
quietly  in  his  chair,  and  smiled. 

But  the  old  people  were  most  interesting  of 
all  to  me  when  they  had  visitors.  Then  every 
thing  about  their  house  assumed  a  different 
aspect.  It  may  be  said  that  these  good  people 
only  lived  for  their  guests.  They  vied  with 
each  other  in  offering  you  every  thing  which 
the  place  produced.  But  the  most  pleasing 
feature  of  it  all  to  me  was,  that,  in  all  their  kind¬ 
liness,  there  was  nothing  feigned.  Their  kind¬ 
ness  and  readiness  to  oblige  were  so  gently 
expressed  in  their  faces,  so  became  them,  that 
.  you  involuntarily  yielded  to  their  requests. 
These  were  the  outcome  of  the  pure,  clear 
simplicity  of  their  good,  sincere  souls.  Their 
joy  was  not  at  all  of  the  sort  with  which  the 
official  of  the  court  favors  you,  when  he  has 
become  a  personage  through  your  exertions, 
and  calls  you  his  benefactor,  and  fawns  at  your 
feet.  No  guest  was  ever  permitted  to  depart 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


75 


on  the  day  of  his  arrival :  he  must  needs  pass 
the  night  with  them. 

“  How  is  it  possible  to  set  out  at  so  late  an 
hour  upon  so  long  a  journey  !  ”  Pulcheria  Ivan¬ 
ovna  always  observed.  (The  visitor  usually 
lived  three  or  four  versts  from  them.) 

“Of  course,”  said  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  “it 
is  impossible  on  all  accounts :  robbers,  or  some 
other  evil  men,  will  attack  you.” 

“May  God  in  his  mercy  deliver  us  from  rob¬ 
bers!  ”  said  Pulcheria  Ivanovna.  “And  why 
mention  such  things  at  night  ?  Robbers,  or  no 
robbers,  it  is  dark,  and  no  fit  time  to  travel. 
And  your  coachman,  ...  I  know  your  coach¬ 
man  :  he  is  so  weak  and  small,  any  horse  could 
kill  him  ;  besides,  he  has  probably  been  drinking, 
and  is  now  asleep  somewhere.” 

And  the  visitor  was  obliged  to  remain.  But 
the  evening  in  the  warm,  low  room,  cheerful, 
strewn  with  stories,  the  steam  rising  from  the 
food  upon  the  table,  which  was  always  nourish¬ 
ing,  and  cooked  in  a  masterly  manner,  —  this 
was  his  reward.  I  seem  now  to  see  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch  bending  to  seat  himself  at  the  table, 
with  his  constant  smile,  and  listening  with 


76 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


attention,  and  even  with  delight,  to  his  guest. 
The  conversation  often  turned  on  politics.  The 
guest,  who  also  emerged  but  rarely  from  his 
village,  frequently  with  significant  mien  and 
mysterious  expression  of  countenance,  aired  his 
surmises,  and  told  how  the  French  had  formed 
a  secret  compact  with  the  English  to  let  Buona¬ 
parte  loose  upon  Russia  again,  or  talked  merely 
of  the  impending  war ;  and  then  Athanasii 
Ivanovitch  often  remarked,  without  appearing 
to  look  at  Pulcheria  Ivanovna,  — 

“I  am  thinking  of  going  to  the  war  myself. 
Why  cannot  I  go  to  the  war  ?  ” 

“  You  have  been  already,”  broke  in  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna.  “  Don’t  believe  him,”  she  said,  turn¬ 
ing  to  the  visitor  :  “  what  good  would  he,  an  old 
man,  do  in  the  war  ?  The  very  first  soldier 
would  shoot  him  ;  by  Heaven,  he  would  shoot 
him  !  he  would  take  aim,  and  fire  at  him.” 

“What?”  said  Athanasii  Ivanovitch.  “I 
would  shoot  him.” 

“Just  listen  to  him!”  interposed  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna.  “  Why  should  he  go  to  the  war  ? 
And  his  pistols  have  been  rusty  this  long  time, 
and  are  lying  in  the  storeroom.  If  you  could 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


77 


only  see  them  !  the  powder  would  burst  them 
before  they  would  fire.  He  will  blow  his  hands 
off,  and  disfigure  his  face,  and  be  miserable  for¬ 
ever  after ! ” 

“  What’s  that?”  said  Athanasii  Ivanovitch. 
“  I  will  buy  myself  new  arms  :  I  will  take  my 
sword  or  a  Cossack  lance.” 

“ These  are  all  inventions  :  as  soon  as  a  thing 
comes  into  his  head,  he  begins  to  talk  about 
it  !  ”  interrupted  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  with  vexa¬ 
tion.  “  I  know  that  he  is  jesting,  but  it  is  un¬ 
pleasant  to  hear  him  all  the  same.  He  always 
talks  so  :  sometimes  you  listen  and  listen,  until 
it  is  perfectly  frightful.” 

But  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  satisfied  with  hav¬ 
ing  frightened  Pulcheria  Ivanovna,  laughed  as 
he  sat  doubled  up  in  his  chair. 

Pulcheria  Ivanovna  seemed  to  me  most  note¬ 
worthy  when  she  offered  her  guest  zakuska.1 
“  Here,”  she  said,  taking  the  cork  from  a  decan¬ 
ter,  “is  genuine  yarrow  or  sage  vodka;  if  any 
one’s  shoulder-blades  or  loins  ache,  this  is  a 

1  A  whet  to  the  appetite  preliminary  to  dinner,  consisting  of  cavi¬ 
are,  herring,  smoked  salmon,  sardines,  smoked  goose,  sausages, 
cheese-bread,  butter,  vodka,  etc. 


73 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


very  good  remedy :  here  is  some  with  gentian  ; 
if  you  have  a  ringing  in  your  ears,  or  eruption 
on  your  face,  this  is  very  good  :  and  this  is  dis¬ 
tilled  with  peach-kernels;  here,  take  a  glass; 
what  a  fine  perfume !  If  ever  any  one,  in  get¬ 
ting  out  of  bed,  strikes  himself  against  the  cor¬ 
ner  of  the  clothes-press  or  table,  and  a  bump 
comes  on  his  forehead,  all  he  has  to  do  is  to 
drink  a  glass  of  this  before  meals,  —  and  it  all 
disappears  out  of  hand,  as  though  it  had  never 
been.”  Then  followed  a  catalogue  of  the  other 
decanters,  almost  all  of  which  possessed  some 
healing  properties.  Having  loaded  down  her 
guest  with  this  complete  apothecary  shop,  she 
led  him  to  where  a  multitude  of  dishes  were 
set  out.  “  Here  are  mushrooms  with  summer- 
savory  ;  and  here  are  some  with  cloves  and  wal¬ 
nuts.  A  Turkish  woman  taught  me  how  to 
pickle  them,  at  a  time  when  there  were  still 
Turkish  prisoners  among  us.  She  was  a  good 
Turk,  and  it  was  not  noticeable  that  she  pro¬ 
fessed  the  Turkish  faith :  she  behaved  very 
nearly  as  we  do,  only  she  would  not  eat  pork ; 
they  say  that  it  is  forbidden  by  their  laws. 
Here  are  mushrooms  with  currant-leaves  and 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


79 


nutmeg ;  and  here,  some  with  clove-pinks. 
These  are  the  first  I  have  cooked  in  vinegar. 
I  don’t  know  how  good  they  are.  I  learned  the 
secret  from  Ivan’s  father  :  you  must  first  spread 
oak-leaves  in  a  small  cask,  and  then  sprinkle  on 
pepper  and  saltpetre,  and  then  more,  until  it  be¬ 
comes  the  color  of  hawk-weed,  and  then  spread 
the  liquid  over  the  mushrooms.  And  here  are 
cheese-tarts  ;  these  are  different :  and  here  are 
some  pies  with  cabbage  and  buckwheat  flour, 
which  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  is  extremely  fond 
of.” 

“Yes,”  added  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  “I  am 
very  fond  of  them  :  they  are  soft  and  a  little 
tart.” 

Pulcheria  Ivanovna  was  generally  in  very 
good  spirits  when  they  had  visitors.  Good  old 
woman  !  she  belonged  entirely  to  her  guests. 
I  loved  to  stay  with  them  ;  and  though  I  over¬ 
ate  myself  horribly,  like  all  who  visited  them, 
and  although  it  was  very  bad  for  me,  still,  I  was 
always  glad  to  go  to  them.  Besides,  I  think 
the  air  of  Little  Russia  must  possess  some  spe¬ 
cial  properties  which  aid  digestion  ;  for  if  any 
one  undertook  to  eat  here,  in  that  way,  there  is 


8o 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


no  doubt  but  that  he  would  find  himself  lying 
on  the  table  instead  of  in  bed. 

Good  old  people !  .  .  .  But  my  story  ap¬ 
proaches  a  very  sad  event,  which  changed  for¬ 
ever  the  life  in  that  peaceful  nook.  This  event 
appears  all  the  more  striking,  because  it  resulted 
from  the  most  insignificant  cause.  But,  in  ac¬ 
cordance  with  the  primitive  arrangement  of 
things,  the  most  trifling  causes  produce  the 
greatest  events,  and  the  grandest  undertakings 
end  in  the  most  insignificant  results.  Some  war¬ 
rior  collects  all  the  forces  of  his  empire,  fights 
for  several  years,  his  colonels  distinguish  them¬ 
selves,  and  at  last  it  all  ends  in  the  acquisition 
of  a  bit  of  land  on  which  no  one  would  even 
plant  potatoes ;  but  sometimes,  on  the  other 
hand,  a  couple  of  sausage-makers  in  different 
towns  quarrel  over  some  trifle,  and  the  quarrel 
at  last  extends  to  the  towns,  and  then  to  the 
villages  and  hamlets,  and  then  to  the  whole 
empire.  But  we  will  drop  these  reflections ; 
they  lead  nowhere :  and,  besides,  I  am  not  fond 
of  reflections  when  they  remain  mere  reflec¬ 
tions. 

Pulcheria  Ivanovna  had  a  little  gray  cat,  which 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


8l 


almost  always  lay  coiled  up  in  a  ball  at  her  feet. 
Pulcheria  Ivanovna  stroked  her  occasionally, 
and  tickled  her  neck  with  her  finger,  which  the 
petted  cat  stretched  out  as  long  as  possible.  It 
was  impossible  to  say  that  Pulcheria  Ivanovna 
loved  her  so  very  much,  but  she  had  simply 
become  attached  to  her  from  having  become 
used  to  seeing  her  about  continually.  But 
Athanasii  Ivanovitch  often  joked  at  such  an 
attachment. 

“  I  cannot  see,  Pulcheria  Ivanovna,  what  you 
find  attractive  in  that  cat :  of  what  use  is  she? 
If  you  had  a  dog,  that  would  be  quite  another 
thing  ;  you  can  take  a  dog  out  hunting :  but 
what  is  a  cat  good  for  ?  ” 

“Be  quiet,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch/’  said  Pul¬ 
cheria  Ivanovna:  “you  just  like  to  talk,  and 
that’s  all.  A  dog  is  not  clean ;  a  dog  soils 
things,  and  breaks  every  thing :  but  the  cat  is 
a  peaceable  beast ;  she  does  no  harm  to  any 
one.” 

But  it  made  no  difference  to  Athanasii  Ivano¬ 
vitch  whether  it  was  a  cat  or  a  dog :  he  only 
said  it  to  tease  Pulcheria  Ivanovna. 

Behind  their  garden  was  a  large  wood,  which 


82 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


had  been  spared  by  the  enterprising  steward, 
possibly  because  the  sound  of  the  axe  might 
have  reached  the  ears  of  Pulcheria  Ivanovna. 
It  was  dense,  neglected :  the  old  tree-trunks 
were  concealed  by  luxuriant  hazel-bushes,  and 
resembled  the  feathered  legs  of  pigeons.  In 
this  wood  dwelt  wild-cats.  The  wild  forest-cats 
must  not  be  confounded  with  those  which  run 
about  the  roofs  of  houses  :  being  in  the  city, 
they  are  much  more  civilized,  in  spite  of  their 
savage  nature,  than  the  denizens  of  the  woods. 
These,  on  the  contrary,  are  mostly  fierce  and 
wild  :  they  are  always  lean  and  ugly,  and  miauw 
in  rough,  untutored  voices.  They  sometimes 
scratch  for  themselves  underground  passages  to 
the  storehouses,  and  steal  tallow.  They  occa¬ 
sionally  make  their  appearance  in  the  kitchen, 
springing  suddenly  in  at  an  open  window,  when 
they  see  that  the  cook  has  gone  off  among  the 
grass.  As  a  rule,  noble  feelings  are  unknown 
to  them  :  they  live  by  thievery,  and  strangle  the 
little  sparrows  in  their  very  nests.  These  cats 
had  a  long  conference  with  Pulcheria  Ivanovna’s 
tame  cat,  through  a  hole  under  the  storehouse, 
and  finally  led  her  astray,  as  a  detachment  of 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


83 


soldiers  leads  astray  a  dull  peasant.  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna  noticed  that  her  cat  was  missing,  and 
sent  to  look  for  her  ;  but  no  cat  was  to  be  found. 
Three  days  passed :  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  felt 
sorry,  but  finally  forgot  all  about  her  loss. 

One  day  she  had  been  inspecting  her  vege¬ 
table-garden,  and  was  returning  with  her  hands 
full  of  fresh  green  cucumbers,  which  she  had 
picked  for  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  when  a  most 
pitiful  miauwing  struck  her  ear.  She  instinc¬ 
tively  called,  “  Kitty !  kitty  !  ”  and  out  from  the 
tall  grass  came  her  gray  cat,  thin  and  starved. 
It  was  evident  that  she  had  not  had  a  mouthful 
of  food  for  days.  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  continued 
to  call  her ;  but  the  cat  stood  crying  before  her, 
and  did  not  venture  to  approach.  It  was  plain 
that  she  had  become  quite  wild  in  that  time. 
Pulcheria  Ivanovna  stepped  forward,  still  call¬ 
ing  the  cat,  which  followed  her  timidly  to  the 
fence.  Finally,  seeing  familiar  places,  it  en¬ 
tered  the  room.  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  at  once 
ordered  milk  and  meat  to  be  given  her,  and, 
sitting  down  by  her,  enjoyed  the  avidity  with 
which  her  poor  pet  swallowed  morsel  after  mor¬ 
sel,  and  lapped  the  milk.  The  gray  runaway 


84 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


fattened  before  her  very  eyes,  and  began  to  eat 
less  eagerly.  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  reached  out 
her  hand  to  stroke  her ;  but  the  ungrateful 
animal  had  evidently  become  too  well  used  to 
robber  cats,  or  adopted  some  romantic  notion 
about  love  and  poverty  being  better  than  a 
palace,  for  the  cats  were  as  poor  as  church- 
mice.  However  that  may  be,  she  sprang 
through  the  window,  and  none  of  the  servants 
were  able  to  catch  her. 

The  old  woman  reflected.  “  It  is  my  death 
which  has  come  for  me,”  she  said  to  herself ; 
and  nothing  could  cheer  her.  All  day  she  was 
sad.  In  vain  did  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  jest, 
and  want  to  know  why  she  had  suddenly  grown 
so  grave.  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  either  made  no 
reply,  or  one  which  was  in  no  way  satisfactory 
to  Athanasii  Ivanovitch.  The  next  day  she 
was  visibly  thinner. 

“What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna  ?  You  are  not  ill  ?  ” 

“  No,  I  am  not  ill,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch.  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  a  strange  occurrence. 
I  know  that  I  shall  die  this  year :  my  death  has 
already  come  for  me.” 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


85 


Athanasii  Ivanovitch’s  mouth  became  dis¬ 
torted  with  pain.  Nevertheless,  he  tried  to 
conquer  the  sad  feeling  in  his  mind,  and  said, 
smiling,  “God  only  knows  what  you  are  talking 
about,  Pulcheria  Ivanovna!  You  must  have 
drunk  some  peach  infusion  instead  of  your 
usual  herb-tea.” 

“No,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  I  have  not  drunk 
the  peach,”  said  Pulcheria  Ivanovna. 

And  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  was  sorry  that  he 
had  made  fun  of  Pulcheria  Ivanovna ;  and,  as 
he  looked  at  her,  a  tear  hung  on  his  lashes. 

“I  beg  you,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  to  fulfil 
my  wishes,”  said  Pulcheria  Ivanovna.  “  When  I 
die,  bury  me  by  the  church-wall.  Put  my  gray¬ 
ish  dress  on  me,  —  the  one  with  small  flowers 
on  a  cinnamon  ground.  My  satin  dress  with  red 
stripes,  you  must  not  put  on  me  :  a  corpse  needs 
no  clothes.  Of  what  use  are  they  to  her?  But 
it  will  be  good  for  you.  Make  yourself  a  fine 
dressing-gown,  in  case  visitors  come,  so  that 
you  can  make  a  good  appearance  when  you 
receive  them.” 

“  God  knows  what  you  are  saying,  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna!”  said  Athanasii  Ivanovitch.  “Death 


86 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


will  come  some  time,  but  you  frighten  one  with 
such  remarks.” 

“No,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  :  I  know  when  my 
death  is  to  be.  But  do  not  sorrow  for  me.  I 
am  old,  and  stricken  in  years ;  and  you,  too,  are 
old.  We  shall  soon  meet  in  the  other  world.” 

But  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  sobbed  like  a  child. 

“  It  is  a  sin  to  weep,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch. 
Do  not  sin,  and  anger  God  by  your  grief.  I 
am  not  sorry  to  die  :  I  am  only  sorry  for  one 
thing,” — a  heavy  sob  broke  her  speech  for  a 
moment,  —  “I  am  sorry  because  I  do  not  know 
whom  I  shall  leave  with  you,  who  will  look 
after  you  when  I  am  dead.  You  are  like  a  little 
child  :  the  one  who  attends  you  must  love  you.” 
And  her  face  expressed  such  deep  and  heart-felt 
sorrow,  that  I  do  not  know  whether  any  one 
could  have  beheld  her,  and  remained  unmoved. 

“  Mind,  Yavdokha,”  she  said,  turning  to  the 
housekeeper,  whom  she  had  ordered  to  be  sum¬ 
moned  expressly,  “that  you  look  after  your 
master  when  I  am  dead,  and  cherish  him  like 
the  apple  of  your  eye,  like  your  own  child. 
See  that  every  thing  he  likes  is  prepared  in  the 
kitchen  ;  that  his  linen  and  clothes  are  always 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


87 


clean  ;  that,  when  visitors  happen  in,  you  dress 
him  properly  :  otherwise  he  will  come  forth  in 
his  old  dressing-gown,  for  he  often  forgets  now 
whether  it  is  a  festival  or  an  ordinary  day.  Do 
not  take  your  eyes  off  him,  Yavdokha.  I  will 
pray  for  you  in  the  other  world,  and  God  will 
reward  you.  Do  not  forget,  Yavdokha.  You 
are  old,  —  you  have  not  long  to  live.  Take  no 
sins  upon  your  soul.  If  you  do  not  look  well 
to  him,  you  will  have  no  happiness  in  the  world. 
I  will  beg  God  myself  to  give  you  an  unhappy 
ending.  And  you  will  be  unhappy  yourself, 
and  your  children  will  be  unhappy ;  and  none 
of  your  race  will  ever  have  God’s  blessing.” 

Poor  old  woman !  she  thought  not  of  the 
great  moment  which  awaited  her,  nor  of  her 
soul,  nor  of  the  future  life  :  she  thought  only 
of  her  poor  companion,  with  whom  she  had 
passed  her  life,  and  whom  she  was  leaving  an 
orphan  and  unprotected.  After  this  fashion,  she 
arranged  every  thing  with  great  skill  :  so  that, 
after  her  death,  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  might 
not  perceive  her  absence.  Her  faith  in  her 
approaching  end  was  so  firm,  and  her  mind  was 
so  fixed  upon  it,  that,  in  a  few  days,  she  actually 


88 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


took  to  her  bed,  and  was  unable  to  take  any 
nourishment. 

Athanasii  Ivanovitch  was  all  attention,  and 
never  left  her  bedside.  “  Perhaps  you  could 
eat  something,  Pulcheria  Ivanovna, ”  he  said, 
looking  uneasily  into  her  eyes.  But  Pulcheria 
Ivanovna  made  no  reply.  At  length,  after  a 
long  silence,  she  moved  her  lips,  as  though 
desirous  of  saying  something  —  and  her  breath 
fled. 

Athanasii  Ivanovitch  was  utterly  amazed.  It 
seemed  to  him  so  terrible,  that  he  did  not  even 
weep.  He  gazed  at  her  with  troubled  eyes,  as 
though  he  did  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of 
a  corpse. 

They  laid  the  dead  woman  on  a  table,  dressed 
her  in  the  dress  she  herself  had  designated, 
crossed  her  arms,  and  placed  a  wax  candle  in 
her  hand.  He  looked  on  without  feeling.  A 
throng  of  people  of  every  class  filled  the  court. 
Long  tables  were  spread  in  the  yard,  and  cov¬ 
ered  with  heaps  of  kutya ,x  fruit-wine,  and  pies. 
The  visitors  talked,  wept,  looked  at  the  dead 
woman,  discussed  her  qualities,  gazed  at  him  ; 


1  Rice  cooked  with  honey  and  raisins. 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


89 


but  he  looked  upon  it  all  as  a  stranger  might. 
At  last  they  carried  out  the  dead  woman :  the 
people  thronged  after,  and  he  followed.  The 
priests  were  in  full  vestments,  the  sun  shone, 
the  infants  cried  in  their  mothers’  arms,  the 
larks  sang,  the  children  in  their  little  blouses 
ran  and  capered  along  the  road.  Finally  they 
placed  the  coffin  over  the  grave.  They  bade 
him  approach,  and  kiss  the  dead  woman  for  the 
last  time.  He  approached,  and  kissed  her. 
Tears  appeared  in  his  eyes,  but  unfeeling  tears. 
The  coffin  was  lowered :  the  priest  took  the 
shovel,  and  flung  in  the  first  earth.  The  full 
choir  of  diaks  and  two  sacristans  sang  the 
requiem  under  the  blue,  cloudless  sky.  The 
laborers  grasped  their  shovels ;  and  the  grave 
was  soon  filled,  the  earth  levelled  off.  Then  he 
pressed  forward.  All  stood  aside  to  make  room 
for  him,  wishing  to  know  his  object.  He  raised 
his  eyes,  looked  about  in  a  bewildered  way,  and 
said,  “And  so  you  have  buried  her!  Why?”  — 
He  paused,  and  did  not  finish  his  sentence. 

But  when  he  returned  home,  when  he  saw 
that  his  chamber  was  empty,  that  even  the 
chair,  on  which  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  was  wont 


90 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


to  sit,  had  been  carried  out,  he  sobbed,  sobbed 
violently,  irrepressibly  ;  and  tears  ran  in  streams 
from  his  dim  eyes. 

Five  years  passed.  What  grief  will  time  not 
efface !  What  passion  is  not  cured  in  unequal 
battle  with  it !  I  knew  a  man  in  the  bloom  of 
his  youthful  strength,  full  of  true  nobility  and 
worth  ;  I  knew  that  he  loved,  tenderly,  passion¬ 
ately,  wildly,  boldly,  modestly ;  and  in  my 
presence,  before  my  very  eyes,  almost,  the 
object  of  his  passion  —  a  girl,  gentle,  beautiful 
as  an  angel  —  was  struck  by  insatiable  Death. 
I  never  beheld  such  a  terrible  outburst  of  spir¬ 
itual  suffering,  such  mad,  fiery  grief,  such 
consuming  despair,  as  agitated  the  unfortunate 
lover.  I  never  thought  that  a  man  could  make 
for  himself  such  a  hell,  where  there  was  neither 
shadow  nor  form,  nor  any  thing  in  any  way 
resembling  hope.  .  .  .  They  tried  never  to  let 
him  out  of  sight :  they  concealed  all  weapons 
from  him  by  which  he  could  commit  suicide. 
Two  weeks  later  he  regained  control  of  him¬ 
self;  he  began  to  laugh  and  jest;  they  gave 
him  his  freedom,  and  the  first  use  he  made  of 
it  was  to  buy  a  pistol.  One  day  a  sudden  shot 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


91 


startled  his  relatives  terribly:  they  rushed  into 
the  room,  and  beheld  him  stretched  out,  with 
his  skull  crushed.  A  physician  who  chanced 
to  be  present,  and  who  enjoyed  a  universal 
reputation  for  skill,  discovered  some  signs  of 
life  in  him,  found  that  the  wound  was  not  fatal ; 
and  he  was  cured,  to  the  great  amazement  of 
all.  The  watchfulness  over  him  was  redoubled : 
even  at  table,  they  never  put  a  knife  near  him, 
and  tried  to  keep  every  thing  away  from  him 
with  which  he  could  injure  himself.  But  he 
soon  found  a  fresh  opportunity,  and  threw  him¬ 
self  under  the  wheels  of  a  passing  carriage. 
His  hand  and-ieet  were  crushed,  but  again  he 
was  cured.  A  year  after  this  I  saw  him  in  a 
crowded '  salon.  He  was  talking  gayly,  as  he 
covered  a  card  ;  and  behind  him,  leaning  upon 
the  back  of  his  chair,  stood  his  young  wife, 
turning  over  his  counters. 

Being  in  the  vicinity  during  the  course  of 
the  five  years  already  mentioned,  which  suc¬ 
ceeded  Pulcheria  Ivanovna’s  death,  I  went  to 
the  little  farm  of  Athanasii  Ivanovitch,  to  in- 
quire  after  my  old  neighbor,  with  whom  I  had 
formerly  spent  the  day  so  agreeably,  dining 


92 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


always  on  the  choicest  delicacies  of  his  kind- 
hearted  wife.  When  I  drove  up  to  the  door, 
the  house  seemed  twice  as  old ;  the  peasants’ 
izbas  were  lying  completely  on  one  side,  with¬ 
out  doubt,  exactly  like  their  owners ;  the  fence 
and  hedge  around  the  courtyard  were  com¬ 
pletely  dilapidated ;  and  I  myself  saw  the  cook 
pull  out  a  paling  to  heat  the  stove,  when  she 
had  only  a  couple  of  steps  to  take  in  order  to 
get  the  kindling-wood  which  had  been  piled 
there  expressly.  I  stepped  sadly  upon  the 
veranda :  the  same  dogs,  now  blind,  or  with 
broken  legs,  raised  their  bushy  tails,  all  matted 
with  burs,  and  barked.  The  old  man  came 
out  to  meet  me.  So,  this  was  he !  I  recognized 
him  at  once,  but  he  was  twice  as  bent  as 
formerly.  He  knew  me,  and  greeted  me  with 
the  smile  already  so  well  known  to  me.  I 
followed  him  into  the  room.  All  there  seemed 
the  same  as  in  the  past ;  but  I  observed  a  sort 
of  strange  disorder,  a  tangible  absence  of  some¬ 
thing  :  in  a  word,  I  experienced  that  strange 
sensation  which  takes  possession  of  us  when 
we  enter,  for  the  first  time,  the  dwelling  of  a 
widower,  whom  we  had  heretofore  known  as 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


93 


inseparable  from  the  companion  who  has  been 
with  him  all  his  life.  This  sensation  resembles 
the  one  we  feel  when  we  see  before  us  a  man 
whom  we  had  always  known  as  healthy,  with¬ 
out  his  legs.  In  every  thing  was  visible  the  ab¬ 
sence  of  painstaking  Pulcheria  Ivanovna.  At 
table  they  gave  us  a  knife  without  a  handle : 
the  dishes  were  not  prepared  with  so  much 
art.  I  did  not  care  to  inquire  about  the  man¬ 
agement  of  the  estate :  I  was  even  afraid  to 
glance  at  the  farm-buildings. 

When  we  sat  down  at  the  table,  a  maid  fas¬ 
tened  a  napkin  in  front  of  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  ; 
and  it  was  very  well  that  she  did  so,  for  other¬ 
wise  he  would  have  spotted  his  dressing-gown 
all  over  with  gravy.  I  tried  to  interest  him  in 
something,  and  told  him  various  bits  of  news. 
He  listened  with  his  usual  smile,  but  his  glance 
was  at  times  quite  unintelligent ;  and  thoughts 
did  not  wander  there,  but  only  disappeared. 
He  frequently  raised  a  spoonful  of  porridge, 
and,  instead  of  carrying  it  to  his  mouth,  carried 
it  to  his  nose ;  and,  instead  of  sticking  his  fork 
into  the  chicken,  he  struck  the  decanter  with 
it ;  and  then  the  servant,  taking  his  hand, 


/ 


94 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


guided  it  to  the  chicken.  We  sometimes 
waited  several  minutes  for  the  next  course. 
Athanasii  Ivanovitch  remarked  it  himself,  and 
said,  “  Why  are  they  so  long  in  bringing  the 
food  ?  ”  But  I  saw  through  a  crack  of  the  door, 
that  the  boy  who  brought  the  dishes  was  not 
thinking  of  it  at  all,  but  was  fast  asleep,  with 
his  head  leaning  on  a  stool. 

“This  is  the  dish,”  said  Athanasii  Ivanovitch, 
when  they  brought  us  mnishki 1  with  cream, — 
“this  is  the  dish,”  he  continued,  and  I  ob¬ 
served  that  his  voice  began  to  quiver,  and 
that  tears  were  ready  to  peep  from  his  leaden 
eyes  ;  but  he  collected  all  his  strength,  striving 
to  repress  them  :  “This  is  the  dish  which  the  — 
the  —  the  de  —  ceas  ”  —  and  the  tears  suddenly 
burst  forth  :  his  hand  fell  upon  the  plate,  the 
plate  was  overturned,  flew  from  the  table,  and 
was  broken ;  the  gravy  ran  all  over  him.  He 
sat  stupidly  holding  his  spoon,  and  tears  like  a 
never-ceasing  fountain  flowed,  flowed  in  streams 
down  upon  his  napkin. 

“  O  God  !  ”  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  him, 
“  five  years  of  all-obliterating  time,  ...  an  old 


1  Curds  and  flour. 


95 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 

man,  an  already  apathetic  old  man,  who,  in  all 
his  life,  apparently,  was  never  agitated  by  any 
strong  spiritual  emotion,  whose  whole  life 
seemed  to  consist  in  sitting  on  a  high  chair,  in 
eating  dried  fish  and  pears,  in  telling  good- 
natured  stories  —  and  yet  so  long  and  fervent 
a  grief !  Which  wields  the  mqst  powerful  sway 
over  us,  passion,  or  habit  ?  Or  are  all  our 
strong  impulses,  all  the  whirlwinds  of  our  de¬ 
sire  and  boiling  passions,  but  the  consequence 
of  our  fierce  young  growth,  and  only  for  that 
reason  seem  deep  and  annihilating?”  However 
that  may  be,  all  our  passion,  on  that  occasion, 
seemed  to  me  child’s  play  beside  this  long, 
slow,  almost  insensible  habit.  Several  times 
he  tried  to  pronounce  the  dead  woman’s  name; 
but  in  the  middle  of  the  word  his  peaceful  and 
ordinary  face  became  convulsively  distorted, 
and  a  childlike  fit  of  weeping  cut  me  to  the 
heart. 

No  :  these  were  not  the  tears  of  which  old 
people  are  generally  so  lavish,  when  represent¬ 
ing  to  us  their  wretched  condition  and  unhap¬ 
piness.  Neither  were  these  the  tears  which 
they  drop  over  a  glass  of  punch.  No:  these 


96 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS, 


were  tears  which  flowed  without  asking  a  rea¬ 
son,  distilled  from  the  bitter  pain  of  a  heart 
already  growing  cold. 

He  did  not  live  long  after  this.  I  heard  of 
his  death  recently.  It  was  strange,  though,  that 
the  circumstances  attending  his  death  some¬ 
what  resembled  those  of  Pulcheria  Ivanovna’s. 
One  day  Athanasii  Ivanovitch  decided  to  take  a 
short  stroll  in  the  garden.  As  he  went  slowly 
down  the  path,  with  his  usual  carelessness,  a 
strange  thing  happened  to  him.  All  at  once 
he  heard  some  one  behind  him  say,  in  a  distinct 
voice,  “  Athanasii  Ivanovitch.”  He  turned 
round,  but  there  was  no  one  there.  He  looked 
on  all  sides  :  he  peered  into  the  shrubbery,  — 
no  one  anywhere.  The  day  was  calm,  and  the 
sun  shone  clear.  He  pondered  for  a  moment. 
His  face  lighted  up  ;  and  at  length  he  exclaimed, 
“  It  is  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  calling  me  !  ” 

It  has  doubtless  happened  to  you,  at  some 
time  or  other,  to  hear  a  voice  calling  you  by 
name,  which  the  peasants  explain  by  saying 
that  a  man’s  spirit  is  longing  for  him,  and  calls 
him,  and  that  death  inevitably  follows.  I  con¬ 
fess  that  this  mysterious  call  has  always  been 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


97 


very  terrifying  to  me.  I  remember  to  have 
often  heard  it  in  my  childhood.  Sometimes 
some  one  suddenly  pronounced  my  name  dis¬ 
tinctly  behind  me.  The  day,  on  such  occasions, 
was  usually  bright  and  sunny.  Not  a  leaf  on  a 
tree  moved.  The  silence  was  deathlike  :  even 
the  grasshoppers  had  ceased  to  whir.  There 
was  not  a  soul  in  the  garden.  But  I  must  con¬ 
fess,  that,  if  the  wildest  and  most  stormy  night, 
with  the  utmost  inclemency  of  the  elements, 
had  overtaken  me  alone  in  the  midst  of  an 
impassable  forest,  I  should  not  have  been  so 
much  alarmed  by  it  as  by  this  fearful  stillness 
amid  a  cloudless  day.  On  such  occasions,  I 
usually  ran  in  the  greatest  terror,  catching  my 
breath,  from  the  garden,  and  only  regained 
composure  when  I  encountered  some  person, 
the  sight  of  whom  dispelled  the  terrible  inward 
solitude. 

He  yielded  himself  up  utterly  to  his  moral 
conviction  that  Pulcheria  Ivanovna  was  calling 
him.  He  yielded  with  the  will  of  a  submissive 
child,  withered  away,  coughed,  melted  away  like 
a  candle,  and  at  length  expired  like  it,  when 
nothing  remains  to  feed  its  poor  flame.  “  Lay 


98 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS. 


me  beside  Pulcheria  Ivanovna,”  —  that  was  all 
he  said  before  his  death. 

His  wish  was  fulfilled ;  and  they  buried  him 
beside  the  church,  close  to  Pulcheria  Ivanovna’s 
grave.  The  guests  at  the  funeral  were  few,  but 
there  was  a  throng  of  common  and  poor  people. 
The  house  was  already  quite  deserted.  The 
enterprising  clerk  and  village  elder  carried  off 
to  their  izbas  all  the  old  household  utensils  and 
things  which  the  housekeeper  did  not  manage 
to  appropriate. 

There  shortly  appeared,  from  some  unknown 
quarter,  a  distant  relative,  the  heir  of  the  prop¬ 
erty,  who  had  served  as  lieutenant  in  some  regi¬ 
ment,  I  forget  which,  and  was  a  great  reformer. 
He  immediately  perceived  the  great  waste  and 
neglect  in  the  management.  This  decided  him 
to  root  out,  re-arrange,  and  introduce  order  into 
every  thing.  He  purchased  six  fine  English 
scythes,  nailed  a  number  on  each  izba,  and 
finally  managed  so  well,  that  in  six  months  the 
estate  was  in  the  hands  of  trustees.  The  wise 
trustees  (consisting  of  an  ex-assessor  and  a 
captain  of  the  staff  in  faded  uniform)  promptly 
carried  off  all  the  hens  and  eggs.  The  izbas, 


OLD-FASHIONED  FARMERS . 


99 


nearly  all  of  which  were  lying  on  the  ground, 
fell  into  complete  ruin.  The  muzhiks  wandered 
off,  and  were  mostly  numbered  among  the  run¬ 
aways.  The  real  owner  himself  (who  lived  on 
peaceable  terms  with  his  trustees,  and  drank 
punch  with  them)  very  rarely  entered  his  vil¬ 
lage,  and  did  not  long  live  there.  From  that 
time  forth,  he  has  been  going  about  to  all  the 
fairs  in  Little  Russia,  carefully  inquiring  prices 
at  various  large  establishments,  which  sell  at 
wholesale,  flour,  hemp,  honey,  and  so  forth,  but 
he  buys  only  the  smallest  trifles,  such  as  a  flint, 
a  nail  to  clean  his  pipe,  or  any  thing,  the  value 
of  which  at  wholesale  does  not  exceed  a  ruble. 


THE  TALE 


OF  HOW  IVAN  IVANOVITCH  QUARRELLED 
WITH  IVAN  NIKIFOROVITCH.1 


- *-#-< - 

I, 

IVAN  IVANOVITCH  AND  IVAN  NIKIFOROVITCH. 

A  fine  bekesha2  has  Ivan  Ivanovitch !  splen¬ 
did  !  And  what  lambskin  !  deuce  take  it,  what 
lambskin  !  blue-black  with  silver  lights.  I’ll 
forfeit,  I  know  not  what,  if  you  find  any  one 
else  owning  any  such.  Look  at  it,  for  Heav¬ 
en’s  sake,  especially  when  he  stands  talking 
with  any  one  !  look  at  him  from  the  side  :  what 
a  pleasure  it  is!  To  describe  it,  is  impossi¬ 
ble  :  velvet !  silver  !  fire !  Heavens !  Nikolai 
the  Wonder-worker,  saint  of  God  !  why  have 
not  I  such  a  bekesha?  He  had  it  made  before 

1  From  u  Mirgorod.”  2  Short  shooting-coat. 


ioi 


102  HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


Agafya  Fedosyevna  went  to  Kief.  You  know 
Agafya  Fedosyevna,  the  same  who  bit  the 
assessor’s  ear  off. 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  was  a  very  handsome  man. 
What  a  house  he  had  in  Mirgorod  !  Around  it 

on  every  side  was  a  veranda  on  oaken  pillars, 

* 

and  on  the  veranda  everywhere,  were  benches. 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  when  the  weather  gets  too 
warm,  throws  off  his  bekesha  and  his  under¬ 
clothing,  remains  in  his  shirt  alone,  and  rests 
on  the  veranda,  and  observes  what  is  going  on 
in  the  court-yard  and  the  street.  What  apples 
and  pears  he  has  under  his  very  windows ! 
You  have  but  to  open  the  window,  and  the 
branches  force  themselves  through  into  the 
room.  All  this  is  in  front  of  the  house  ;  but 
you  should  have  seen  what  he  had  in  the  gar¬ 
den.  What  was  there  not  there  ?  Plums, 
cherries,  black-hearts,  every  sort  of  vegetable, 
sunflowers,  cucumbers,  melons,  peas,  a  thresh¬ 
ing-floor,  and  even  a  forge. 

A  very  fine  man,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  !  He  is 
very  fond  of  melons:  they  are  his  favorite 
food.  Just  as  soon  as  he  has  dined,  and  come 
out  on  his  veranda,  in  his  shirt,  he  orders 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  103 


Gapka  to  fetch  two  melons,  and  immediately 
cuts  them  himself,  collects  the  seeds  in  a  paper, 
and  begins  to  eat.  Then  he  orders  Gapka  to 
fetch  the  ink-bottle,  and,  with  his  own  hand, 
writes  this  inscription  on  the  paper  of  seeds  : 
These  melons  were  eaten  on  such  and  such  a 
date .  If  there  was  a  guest  present,  then  it 
reads,  Such  and  such  a  person  assisted. 

The  late  judge  of  Mirgorod  always  gazed  at 
Ivan  Ivanovitch’s  house  with  pleasure.  Yes, 
the  little  house  was  very  pretty.  It  pleased  me 
because  sheds,  and  still  other  little  sheds,  were 
built  on  to  it  on  all  sides  ;  so  that,  looking  at  it 
from  a  distance,  only  roofs  were  visible,  rising 
one  above  another,  which  greatly  resembled  a 
plate  full  of  pancakes,  or,  better  still,  fungi 
growing  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  Moreover,  the 
roofs  were  all  overgrown  with  weeds  :  a  willow, 

4 

an  oak,  and  two  apple-trees  leaned  their  spread¬ 
ing  branches  against  it.  Through  the  trees 
peeped  little  windows  with  carved  and  white¬ 
washed  shutters,  which  projected  even  into  the 
street. 

A  very  fine  man,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  !  The 
commissioner  of  Poltava  knows  him  also. 


104  HOW  TIIE  TW0  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

Dorosh  Tarasovitch  Pukhi'votchka,  when  he 
leaves  Khorola,  always  goes  to  his  house. 
And  Father  Peter,  the  Protopope  who  lives  in 
Koliberda,  when  he  invites  a  few  guests,  always 
says  that  he  knows  of  no  one  who  so  well  ful¬ 
fils  all  his  Christian  duties,  and  understands  so 
well  how  to  live,  as  Ivan  Ivanovitch. 

How  time  flies  !  More  than  ten  years  have 
already  passed  since  he  became  a  widower. 
He  never  had  any  children.  Gapka  has  chil¬ 
dren,  and  they  run  about  the  court-yard.  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  always  gives  each  one  of  them  either 
a  round  cake,  or  a  slice  of  melon,  or  a  pear. 

Gapka  carries  the  keys  of  his  storerooms 
and  cellars ;  but  the  key  of  the  large  chest 
which  stands  in  his  bedroom,  and  that  of  the 
centre  storeroom,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  keeps  him¬ 
self  ;  and  he  does  not  like  to  admit  any  one. 
Gapka  is  a  healthy  girl,  and  goes  about  in  coarse 
cloth  garments  with  ruddy  cheeks  and  calves. 

And  what  a  pious  man  is  Ivan  Ivanovitch  ! 
Every  Sunday  he  dons  his  bekesha,  and  goes  to 
church.  On  entering,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  bows  on 
all  sides,  generally  stations  himself  in  the 
choir,  and  sings  a  very  good  bass.  When  the 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  105 


service  is  over,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  cannot  refrain 
from  passing  the  poor  people  in  review.  He 
probably  would  not  have  cared  to  undertake 
this  tiresome  work,  if  his  natural  goodness  had 
not  urged  him  to  it.  “  Good-day,  beggar  !  ”  he 
generally  said,  selecting  the  most  crippled  old 
woman  in  the  most  threadbare  garment  made 
of  patches.  “  Whence  come  you,  my  poor 
woman  ?  ” 

“I  come  from  the  farm,  panotchka.  ’Tis  two 
days  since  I  have  eaten  or  drunk:  my  own 
children  drove  me  out.” 

“  Poor  soul !  why  did  you  come  hither  ?  ” 

“To  beg  alms,  panotchka,  to  see  whether 
some  one  will  not  give  at  least  enough  for 
bread.” 

“Hm!  so  you  want  bread?”  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
generally  inquired. 

“  How  should  I  not  want  it  ?  I  am  as 
hungry  as  a  dog.” 

“Hm!  ”  replied  Ivan  Ivanovitch  usually, 
“and  perhaps  you  would  like  butter  too  ?” 

“Yes  ;  every  thing  which  your  kindness  will 
give ;  I  will  be  content  with  all.” 

“  Hm  !  Is  butter  better  than  bread  ?  ” 


106  HO W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


“  How  is  a  hungry  person  to  choose  ?  Any 
thing  you  please,  all  is  good.”  Thereupon  the 
old  woman  generally  extended  her  hand. 

“Well,  go  with  God’s  blessing,”  said  Ivan 
Ivanovitch.  “Why  do  you  stand  there?  I’m 
not  beating  you.”  And  turning  to  a  second 
and  a  third  with  the  same  questions,  he  finally 
returns  home,  or  goes  to  drink  a  little  glass  of 
vodka  with  his  neighbor,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  or 
the  judge,  or  the  chief  of  police. 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  is  very  fond  of  receiving 
presents.  This  pleases  him  very  much. 

A  very  fine  man  also  is  Ivan  Nikiforovitch. 
They  are  such  friends  as  the  world  never  saw. 
Anton  Prokofievitch  Pupopuz,  who  goes  about 
to  this  hour  in  his  cinnamon-colored  surtout 
with  blue  sleeves,  and  dines  every  Sunday  with 
the  judge,  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  the 
Devil  himself  had  bound  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  together  with  a  rope  :  where 
one  goes,  the  other  follows. 

Ivan  Nikiforovitch  was  never  married.  Al¬ 
though  it  was  reported  that  he  was  married, 
it  was  completely  false.  I  know  Ivan  Nikifor¬ 
ovitch  very  well,  and  am  able  to  state  that  he 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  10 7 


never  even  had  any  intention  of  marrying. 
Where  do  all  these  scandals  originate  ?  In  the 
same  way  it  was  rumored  that  Ivan  Nikiforo- 
vitch  was  born  with  a  tail  !  But  this  invention 
is  so  clumsy,  and  at  the  same  time  so  horrible 
and  indecent,  that  I  do  not  even  consider  it 
necessary  to  refute  it  for  the  benefit  of  civilized 
readers,  to  whom  it  is  doubtless  known  that 
only  witches,  and  very  few  even  of  those,  have 
tails.  Witches,  moreover,  belong  more  to  the 
feminine  than  to  the  masculine  gender. 

In  spite  of  their  great  friendship,  these  rare 
friends  were  not  always  agreed  between  them¬ 
selves.  Their  characters  can  best  be  known  by 
comparing  them.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  has  the 
unusual  gift  of  speaking  in  an  extremely  pleas¬ 
ant  manner.  Heavens!  How  he  does  speak! 
The  feeling  can  best  be  described  by  comparing 
it  to  that  which  you  experience  when  some  one 
combs  your  head,  or  draws  his  finger  softly 
across  your  heel.  You  listen  and  listen  until 
you  drop  your  head.  Pleasant,  exceedingly 
pleasant!  like  the  sleep  after  a  bath.  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch,  on  the  contrary,  is  more  reti¬ 
cent  ;  but,  if  he  once  takes  up  the  word,  look 


108  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


out  for  yourself !  He  shaves  better  than  any 

r 

barber.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  is  tall  and  thin  :  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch  is  rather  shorter  in  stature,  but 
he  makes  it  up  in  thickness.  Ivan  Ivanovitch’s 
head  is  like  a  radish,  tail  down  ;  Ivan  Nikiforo- 
vitch’s  like  a  radish  with  the  tail  up.  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  lies  on  the  veranda  in  his  shirt  after 
dinner  only :  in  the  evening  he  dons  his 
bekesha,  and  goes  out  somewhere,  either  to 
the  village  store,  where  he  supplies  flour,  or 
into  the  fields  to  catch  quail.  Ivan  Nikiforo¬ 
vitch  lies  all  day  on  his  porch  :  if  the  day  is 
not  too  hot,  he  generally  turns  his  back  to  the 
sun,  and  will  not  go  anywhere.  If  it  happens 
to  occur  to  him  in  the  morning,  he  walks 
through  the  yard,  inspects  the  domestic  affairs, 
and  retires  again  to  his  room.  In  early  days 
he  used  to  go  to  Ivan  Ivanovitch.  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch  is  a  very  refined  man,  and  in  polite  con¬ 
versation  never  utters  an  impolite  word,  and  is 
offended  at  once  if  he  hears  one.  Ivan  Niki¬ 
forovitch  is  not  always  on  his  guard.  On  such 
occasions  Ivan  Ivanovitch  usually  rises  from 
his  seat,  and  says,  “  Enough,  enough,  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch  !  it’s  better  to  go  out  into  the  sun 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  IO9 

at  once,  than  to  utter  such  godless  words.” 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  goes  into  a  terrible  rage  if  a 
fly  falls  into  his  beet-soup ;  then  he  is  fairly 
beside  himself ;  and  he  flings  away  his  plate, 
and  the  housekeeper  catches  it.  Ivan  Nikiforo- 
vitch  is  exceedingly  fond  of  bathing ;  and,  when 
he  gets  up  to  the  neck  in  water,  he  orders  a 
table  and  a  samovar  to  be  placed  on  the  water, 
and  he  is  very  fond  of  drinking  tea  in  that  cool 
position.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  shaves  his  beard 
twice  a  week  ;  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  once.  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  is  extremely  curious.  God  preserve 
you  if  you  begin  to  tell  him  any  thing,  and  do 
not  finish  it !  If  he  is  displeased  with  any 
thing,  he  lets  it  be  seen  at  once.  It  is  very 
hard  to  tell  from  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  counte¬ 
nance  whether  he  is  pleased  or  angry :  even  if 
he  is  rejoiced  at  any  thing,  he  will  not  show  it. 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  is  of  a  rather  timid  character : 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  on  the  contrary,  has  such 
full  folds  in  his  trousers,  that,  if  you  were  to 
inflate  them,  you  might  put  the  court-yard,  with 
its  storehouses  and  buildings,  inside  them. 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  has  large,  expressive  eyes,  of  a 
snuff  color,  and  a  mouth  shaped  something  like 


IIO  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


the  letter  V :  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  has  small, 
yellowish  eyes,  quite  concealed  between  heavy 
brows  and  fat  cheeks ;  and  his  nose  is  the  shape 
of  a  ripe  plum.  If  Ivan  Ivanovitch  treats  you 
to  snuff,  he  always  licks  the  cover  of  his  box 
first  with  his  tongue,  then  taps  on  it  with  his 
finger,  and  says,  as  he  raises  it,  if  you  are  an 
acquaintance,  “  Dare  I  beg  you,  sir,  to  give 
me  the  pleasure?’’  if  a  stranger,  “Dare  I 
beg  you,  sir,  though  I  have  not  the  honor  of 
knowing  your  rank,  name,  and  family,  to  do  me 
the  favor?”  but  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  puts  his 
box  straight  into  your  hand,  and  merely  adds, 
“  Do  me  the  favor.”  Neither  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
nor  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  loves  fleas;  and  there¬ 
fore,  neither  Ivan  Ivanovitch  nor  Ivan  Nikiforo¬ 
vitch  will,  on  any  account,  admit  a  Jew  with 
his  wares,  without  purchasing  of  him  elixir  in 
various  little  boxes,  as  remedies  against  these 
insects,  having  first  rated  him  well  for  belong¬ 
ing  to  the  Hebrew  faith. 

But,  in  spite  of  numerous  dissimilarities, 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  are 
both  very  fine  men. 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  Ill 


II. 

FROM  WHICH  MAY  BE  SEEN,  WHAT  IVAN  IVANO- 
VITCH  WANTED,  WHENCE  AROSE  THE  DISCUS¬ 
SION  BETWEEN  IVAN  IVANOVITCH  AND  IVAN 
NIKIFOROV  ITCH,  AND  WHERE  IT  ENDED. 

One  morning  —  it  was  in  July  —  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch  was  lying  on  his  veranda.  The  day  was 
warm  :  the  air  was  dry,  and  came  in  gusts. 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  had  been  to  town,  to  the  mow¬ 
er’s,  and  at  the  farm,  and  had  succeeded  in 
asking  all  the  muzhiks  and  women  whom  he 
met,  whence,  whither,  and  why.  He  was  fear¬ 
fully  tired,  and  had  lain  down  to  rest.  As  he 
lay  there,  he  looked  at  the  storehouses,  the 
court-yard,  the  sheds,  the  chickens  running 
about,  and  thought  to  himself,  “My  Heavens! 
What  a  master  I  am  !  What  is  there  that  I 
have  not  ?  Birds,  buildings,  granaries,  every 
thing  I  take  a  fancy  to ;  genuine  distilled 
vodka ;  pears  and  plums  in  the  orchard ;  pop¬ 
pies,  cabbages,  peas,  in  the  garden ;  .  .  .  what 


1 12  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


is  there  which  I  have  not  ?  I  should  like  to 
know  what  there  is  that  I  have  not  ?” 

As  he  put  this  profound  question  to  himself, 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  reflected  ;  and  meantime,  his 
eyes,  in  their  search  after  fresh  objects,  crossed 
the  fence  into  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  yard,  and 
involuntarily  took  note  of  a  curious  sight.  A 
fat  woman  was  bringing  out  clothes,  which  had 
been  packed  away,  and  spreading  them  out 
on  the  line  to  air.  Presently  an  old  uniform 
with  worn  trimmings  was  swinging  its  sleeves 
in  the  air,  and  embracing  a  brocade  gown ; 
from  behind  it  peeped  a  court-coat,  its  buttons 
stamped  with  coats-of-arms,  and  with  moth- 
eaten  collar ;  white  cassimere  pantaloons  with 
spots,  which  had  once  upon  a  time  clothed  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch’s  legs,  and  might  now,  possibly,  fit 
his  fingers.  Behind  them  were  speedily  hung 
some  more  in  the  shape  of  the  letter  7 r.  Then 
came  a  blue  Cossack  jacket,  which  Ivan  Niki- 
forovitch  had  had  made  twenty  years  before, 
when  he  prepared  to  enter  the  militia,  and  al¬ 
lowed  his  mustache  to  grow.  And  finally,  one 
after  another,  appeared  a  sword,  projecting  into 
the  air  like  a  spit ;  then  the  skirts  of  a  grass- 


HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 1 3 


green  caftan-like  garment,  with  copper  buttons 
the  size  of  a  five-kopek  piece,  unfolded  them¬ 
selves.  From  among  the  folds  peeped  a  vest 
bound  with  gold,  with  a  wide  opening  in  front. 
The  vest  was  soon  concealed  by  an  old  petti¬ 
coat  belonging  to  his  dead  grandmother,  with 
pockets  which  would  have  held  a  watermelon. 
All  these  things  piled  together  formed  a  very 
interesting  spectacle  for  Ivan  Ivanovitch :  while 
the  sun’s  rays,  falling  upon  bits  of  a  blue  or 
green  sleeve,  a  red  binding,  or  a  scrap  of  gold 
brocade,  or  playing  on  the  point  of  the  sword, 
formed  an  unusual  sight,  similar  to  the  repre¬ 
sentations  of  the  Nativity  given  at  farmhouses 
by  wandering  bands ;  particularly  that  part 
where  the  throng  of  people,  pressing  close 
together,  gaze  at  King  Herod  in  his  golden 
crown,  or  at  Anthony  leading  his  goat :  at  these 
exhibitions  the  fiddle  whines,  a  gypsy  taps  on 
his  lips  in  lieu  of  a  drum,  and  the  sun  goes 
down,  and  the  cool  freshness  of  the  young 
night  presses  more  strongly  on  the  shoulders 
and  bosoms  of  the  plump  farmers’  wives. 

Presently  the  old  woman  crawled,  grunting, 
from  the  storeroom,  dragging  after  her  an  old- 


1 14  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

fashioned  saddle  with  broken  stirrups,  worn 
leather  pistol-cases,  and  saddle-cloth,  once  red, 
with  gilt  embroidery  and  copper  disks. 

“  Here’s  a  stupid  woman,”  thought  Ivan  Ivan- 
ovitch.  “  She’ll  be  dragging  Ivan  Nikiforovitch 
out  and  airing  him  next.” 

And  with  reason  :  Ivan  Ivanovitch  was  not 
so  far  wrong  in  his  surmise.  Five  minutes 
later,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  nankeen  trousers  ap¬ 
peared,  and  took  nearly  half  the  yard  to  them¬ 
selves.  After  that  she  fetched  out  a  hat  and  a 
gun. 

“  What’s  the  meaning  of  this?”  thought  Ivan 
Ivanovitch.  “I  never  saw  Ivan  Nikiforovitch 
have  a  gun.  What  does  he  want  with  it  ? 
Whether  he  shoots,  or  not,  he  keeps  a  gun! 
Of  what  use  is  it  to  him  ?  But  it’s  a  splen¬ 
did  thing.  I  have  long  wanted  to  get  just 
such  a  one ;  I  want  that  gun  very  much  :  I  like 
to  amuse  myself  with  a  gun.  Hello,  there, 
woman,  woman !  ”  shouted  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
beckoning  to  her. 

The  old  woman  approached  the  fence. 

“What’s  that  you  have  there,  my  good 


woman  ?  ” 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  Q UA REE. 


u 


<< 


A  gun,  as  you  see. 

What  sort  of  a  gun  ?  ” 

Who  knows  what  sort  of  a  gun  ?  If  it  wei 
mine,  perhaps  I  should  know  what  it  is  made 
of ;  but  it  is  my  master’s.” 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  rose,  and  began  to  examine 
the  gun  on  all  sides,  and  forgot  to  reprove  the 
old  woman  for  hanging  it  and  the  sword  to  air. 


“It  must  be  iron,”  went  on  the  old  woman. 

“  Hm  !  iron  !  why  iron  ?  ”  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
to  himself.  “  Has  your  master  had  it  long  ?  ” 

“Yes;  long,* perhaps.” 

“It’s  a  nice  thing !”  continued  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch.  “  I  will  ask  him  for  it.  What  can  he 
do  with  it  ?  I’ll  exchange  with  him  for  it.  Is 
your  master  at  home,  my  good  woman  ?  ” 

“Yes.” 

“What  is  he  doing?  lying  down  ?” 

“Yes,  lying  down.” 

“Very  well,  I  will  come  to  him.” 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  dressed  himself,  took  his  well- 
seasoned  stick  for  the  benefit  of  the  dogs  (for, 
in  Mirgorod,  there  are  more  dogs  than  people 
to  be  met  in  the  street),  and  went  out. 

Although  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  house  was  next 


THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED, 

Tan  Ivanovitch’s,  so  that  you  could  have 
one  to  the  other  by  climbing  the  fence, 
-ye i  ivan  Ivanovitch  went  by  the  street.  From 
the  street  it  was  necessary  to  turn  into  an  alley 
which  was  so  narrow,  that  if  two  one-horse  carts 
chanced  to  meet,  they  could  not  get  out,  and 
were  forced  to  remain  there,  until  the  drivers, 
seizing  the  hind-wheels,  dragged  them  in  oppo¬ 
site  directions  into  the  street,  and  pedestrians 
drew  aside  like  flowers  growing  by  the  fence  on 
either  hand.  Ivan  Ivanovitch’s  wagon-shed  ad¬ 
joined  this  alley  on  one  side  ;  arid  on  the  other, 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  granary,  gate,  and  pigeon- 
house.  *  Ivan  Ivanovitch  went  up  to  the  gate, 
and  rattled  the  latch.  Within  arose  the  barking 
of  dogs  ;  but  the  motley-haired  pack  ran  back, 
wagging  their  tails,  when  they  saw  the  well- 
known  face.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  traversed  the 
court-yard,  in  which  were  collected  Indian  doves 
fed  by  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  own  hand,  water¬ 
melon,  and  melon-rinds,  vegetables,  broken 
wheels,  barrel-hoops,  or  a  wallowing  small  boy 
with  dirty  blouse,  —  a  picture  such  as  painters 
love.  The  shadows  of  the  fluttering  clothes 
covered  nearly  the  whole  of  the  yard,  and  lent 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  I  1 7 

it  a  degree  of  coolness.  The  woman  greeted 
him  with  an  inclination,  and  stood,  gaping,  in 
one  spot.  The  front  of  the  house  was  adorned 
with  a  small  porch,  its  roof  supported  on  two 
oak  pillars,  —  a  welcome  protection  from  the 
sun,  which  at  that  season  in  Little  Russia  loves 
not  to  jest,  and  bathes  the  pedestrian  from  head 
to  foot  in  boiling  perspiration.  From  this  it 
may  be  judged  how  powerful  was  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch’s  desire  to  obtain  an  indispensable  article, 
when  he  made  up  his  mind,  at  such  an  hour, 
to  depart  from  his  usual  custom,  which  was  to 
walk  about  only  in  the  evening. 

The  room  which  Ivan  Ivanovitch  entered  was 
quite  dark,  for  the  shutters  were  closed  ;  and  the 
ray  of  sunlight  falling  through  a  hole  made  in 
the  shutter,  took  on  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
and,  striking  the  opposite  wall,  sketched  upon 
it  a  party-colored  picture  of  the  outlines  of  roofs, 
trees,  and  the  clothes  suspended  in  the  yard, 
only  upside  down.  This  gave  the  room  a  pecul¬ 
iar  half-light. 

“  God  assist  you  !  ”  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch. 

“  Ah  !  how  do  you  do,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  ?  ” 
replied  a  voice  from  the  corner  of  the  room. 


I  1 8  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

Then  only  did  Ivan  Ivanovitch  perceive  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch,  lying  upon  a  rug  which  was 
spread  on  the  floor.  “  Excuse  me  for  appearing 
before  you  in  a  state  of  nature.” 

“  Not  at  all.  You  have  been  asleep  to-day, 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ?  ” 

“  I  have  been  asleep.  Have  you  been  asleep, 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  ?  ” 

“  I  have.” 

“  And  now  you  have  risen  ?  ” 

“Now  I  have  risen.  Christ  be  with  you, 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  !  How  can  you  sleep  until 
this  time?  I  have  just  come  from  the  farm. 
There’s  very  fine  barley  on  the  road,  charming! 
and  the  hay  is  so  tall  and  soft  and  golden  !  ” 
“Gorpina!”  shouted  Ivan  Nikiforovitch, 
“fetch  Ivan  Ivanovitch  some  vodka,  and  some 
pastry  and  sour  cream  !  ” 

“Fine  weather,  we’re  having  to-day.” 

“Don’t  praise  it,  Ivan  Ivanovitch!  Devil 
take  it !  You  can’t  get  away  from  the  heat.” 

“  Now,  why  need  you  mention  the  Devil ! 
Ah,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch!  you  will  recall  my 
words  when  it’s  too  late.  You  will  suffer  in  the 
next  world  for  such  godless  words.” 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  II9 

“  How  have  I  offended  you,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  ? 
I  have  not  attacked  your  father  nor  your  moth¬ 
er.  I  don’t  know  how  I  have  insulted  you.” 

“  Enough,  enough,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  !  ” 

“By  Heavens,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  I  did  not 
insult  you  !  ” 

“  It’s  strange  that  the  quails  haven’t  come 
yet  to  the  whistle.” 

“Think  what  you  please,  but  I  have  not 
insulted  you  in  any  way.” 

“I  don’t  know  why  they  don’t  come,”  said 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  as  if  he  did  not  hear  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch:  “it  is  more  than  time  for  them 
already  ;  .  .  .  but  they  seem  to  need  more  time, 
for  some  reason.” 

“  You  say  that  the  barley  is  good  ?  ” 

“  Splendid  barley,  splendid  !  ” 

A  silence  ensued. 

“  So  you  are  having  your  clothes  aired,  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch  ?  ”  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  at  length. 

“  Yes  :  those  cursed  women  have  ruined  some 
beautiful  clothes  ;  almost  new,  they  were,  too. 
Now  I’m  having  them  aired  :  the  cloth  is  fine 
and  handsome.  They  only  need  turning  to 
make  them  fit  to  wear  again.” 


120  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


“  One  thing  among  them  pleased  me  extreme¬ 
ly,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ?  ” 

“  Which  was  that  ?  ” 

“Tell  me,  please,  what  do  you  do  with  the 
gun  that  has  been  put  to  air  with  the  clothes  ?  ” 
Here  Ivan  Ivanovitch  offered  his  snuff.  “May 
I  ask  you  to  do  me  the  favor  ?  ” 

“By  no  means!  take  it  yourself :  I  will  use 
my  own.”  Thereupon  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  felt 
about  him,  and  got  hold  of  his  snuff-box.  “That 
stupid  woman  !  So  she  hung  the  gun  out  to 
air.  That  Jew  makes  good  snuff  in  Sorotchintzi. 
I  don’t  know  what  he  puts  into  it,  but  it  is  so 
fragrant.  It  is  a  little  like  tansy.  Here,  take  a 
little,  and  chew  it :  isn’t  it  like  tansy  ?  ” 

“Say,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  I  want  to  talk 
about  that  gun  :  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
it?  You  don’t  need  it.” 

“  Why  don’t  I  need  it  ?  I  might  want  to 
shoot  ? ” 

“God  be  with  you,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  !  When 
will  you  shoot  ?  At  the  millennium,  perhaps  ? 
So  far  as  I  know,  or  any  one  can  recollect, 
you  never  killed  even  a  duck  :  yes,  and  your 
nature  was  not  so  constructed  that  you  can 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  12 1 


shoot.  You  have  a  dignified  bearing  and  figure  : 
how  are  you  to  drag  yourself  about  the  marshes, 
when  your  garment,  which  it  is  not  polite  to 
mention  in  conversation  by  name,  is  being  aired 
at  this  very  moment  ?  What  then  ?  No  :  you 
require  rest,  repose.”  (Ivan  Ivanovitch,  as  has 
been  hinted  at  above,  employed  uncommonly 
picturesque  language  when  it  was  necessary  to 
persuade  any  one.  How  he  talked  !  Heavens, 
how  he  could  talk!)  “Yes,  and  you  require 
polite  actions.  See  here,  give  it  to  me  !  ” 

“The  idea!  The  gun  is  valuable  :  you  can’t 
find  such  guns  anywhere  nowadays.  I  bought 
it  of  a  Turk  when  I  joined  the  militia;  and 
now,  to  give  it  away  all  of  a  sudden  !  Impos¬ 
sible !  It  is  an  indispensable  article.” 

“  Indispensable  for  what  ?  ” 

“For  what?  What  if  robbers  should  attack 
the  house  ?  .  .  .  Indispensable  indeed!  Glory 
to  God  !  now  I  am  at  ease,  and  fear  no  on ej 
And  why  ?  Because  I  know  that  a  gun  stands 
in  my  storehouse.” 

“A  fine  gun  that  !  Why,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch, 
the  hammer  is  spoiled.” 

“What!  how  spoiled?  It  can  be  repaired: 


122  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


all  that  needs  to  be  done  is  to  rub  it  with 
hemp-oil,  so  that  it  may  not  rust.” 

“  I  see  in  your  words,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  any 
thing  but  a  friendly  disposition  towards  me. 
You  will  do  nothing  for  me  in  token  of 
friendship.” 

“  How  can  you  say,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  that  I 
show  you  no  friendship  ?  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself.  Your  oxen  pasture  on 
my  steppes,  and  I  have  never  interfered  with 
them.  When  you  go  to  Poltava,  you  always 
beg  my  wagon,  and  what  then  ?  Have  I  ever 
refused?  Your  children  climb  over  the  fence 
into  my  yard,  and  play  with  my  dogs  —  I  never 
say  any  thing;  let  them  play,  so  long  as  they 
touch  nothing  ;  let  them  play  !  ” 

“  If  you  won’t  give  it  to  me,  then  let  us 
exchange.” 

“What  will  you  give  me  for  it?”  There¬ 
upon  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow,  and  looked  at  Ivan  Ivanovitch. 

“  I  will  give  you  my  dark-brown  sow,  the  one 
I  have  fed  in  the  sty.  A  magnificent  sow. 
You’ll  see,  she’ll  bring  you  a  litter  of  pigs  next 
year.” 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  123 


“  I  do  not  see,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  how  you  can 
talk  so.  What  could  I  do  with  your  sow  ? 
Make  a  funeral  dinner  for  the  Devil  ?  ” 

“  Again!  You  can’t  get  along  without  the 
Devil  !  It’s  a  sin  !  by  Heaven,  it’s  a  sin,  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch  !  ” 

“  What  do  you  mean,  in  fact,  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
by  giving,  the  deuce  knows  what,  —  a  sow, — 
for  my  gun  ?  ” 

“ Why  is  she  ‘the  deuce  knows  what/  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch  ?  ” 

“Why?  You  can  judge  for  yourself  per¬ 
fectly  well  :  here’s  the  gun,  a  known  thing  ; 
but  the  deuce  knows  what  that  sow  is  !  If  it 
had  not  been  you  who  said  it,  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
I  might  have  put  an  insulting  construction  on 
it.” 

“  What  defect  have  you  observed  in  the 
sow?” 

“For  what  do  you  take  me,  in  fact, — fora 
sow  ?  ”  .  .  . 

“  Sit  down,  sit  down  !  I  won’t  .  .  .  No  mat¬ 
ter  about  your  gun  ;  let  it  rot  and  rust  where 
it  stands,  in  the  corner  of  the  storeroom.  I 
don’t  want  to  say  any  thing  more  about  it !  ” 


124  H0W  THE  TW0  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

After  this  a  pause  ensued. 

“They  say,”  began  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  “that 
three  kings  have  declared  war  on  our  Tzar.” 

“Yes:  Peter  Feodorovitch  told  me.  What 
sort  of  a  war  is  this,  and  why  ?  ” 

“I  cannot  say  exactly,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch, 
what  the  cause  is.  I  suppose  the  kings  want 
us  to  adopt  the  Turkish  faith.” 

“Fools!  they  would  have  it,”  said  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch,  raising  his  head. 

“So,  you  see,  our  Tzar  declared  war  on  them 
in  consequence.  ‘No,’  says  he,  ‘  do  you  adopt 
the  faith  of  Christ  !  ’  ” 

“  What  ?  Why,  our  people  will  beat  them, 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  !  ” 

“They  will.  So  you  won’t  swap  the  gun, 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ?  ” 

“  It’s  a  strange  thing  to  me,  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
that  you,  who  seem  to  be  a  man  distinguished 
for  sense,  should  talk  such  nonsense.  What 
a  fool  I  should  be !  ” 

“  Sit  down,  sit  down.  God  be  with  it !  let 
it  burst !  I  won’t  mention  it  again.” 

At  this  moment,  lunch  was  brought  in. 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  drank  a  glass,  and  ate  a  pie 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  1 25 


with  sour  cream.  “  Listen,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  : 
I  will  give  you,  besides  the  sow,  two  sacks  of 
oats;  you  did  not  sow  any  oats.  You’ll  have 
to  buy  oats  this  year,  in  any  case.” 

“By  Heaven,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  I  must  tell 
you,  you  are  very  green  !  [This  is  nothing  : 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  does  not  even  permit  such 
phrases.]  Who  ever  heard  of  swapping  a  gun 
for  two  sacks  of  oats  ?  Never  fear,  you  don’t 
offer  your  coat.” 

“But  you  forget,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  that  I 
am  to  give  you  the  sow  too.” 

“  What !  two  sacks  of  oats  and  a  sow  for  a 
gun  ?  ” 

“Why,  is  it  too  little?” 

“  For  a  gun  ?  ” 

“  Of  course,  for  a  gun.” 

“  Two  sacks  for  a  gun  ?  ” 

“Two  sacks,  not  empty,  but  filled  with  oats; 
and  you’ve  forgotten  the  sow.” 

“  Kiss  your  sow ;  and,  if  you  don’t  like  that, 
then  go  to  the  Evil  One  !  ” 

“  Oh,  get  angry  now,  do  !  See  here  :  they’ll 
stick  your  tongue  full  of  red-hot  needles  in  the 
other  world,  for  such  godless  words.  After  a 


126  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

conversation  with  you,  one  has  to  wash  his  face 
and  hands,  and  fumigate  himself.” 

“  Permit  me,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  :  my  gun  is  a 
noble  thing,  the  most  curious  toy ;  and,  be¬ 
sides,  it  is  a  very  agreeable  decoration  in  a 
room/’  .  .  . 

“You  go  on  like  a  fool  about  that  gun  of 
yours,  Ivan  Nikiferovitch,,,  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
with  vexation  ;  for  he  was  beginning  to  be 
really  angry. 

“  And  you,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  are  a  regular 
goose  !  7 

TT  Tvan  Nikiforovitch  had  not  uttered  that 
word,  then  they  would  have  quarrelled,  but 
would  have  parted  friends  as  usual  ;  but  now 
things  took  quite  another  turn.  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch  flew  into  a  rage. 

“What  was  that  you  said,  Ivan  Nikiforo¬ 
vitch  ?”  he  asked,  raising  his  voice. 

“I  said  you  were  like  a  goose,  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch  !  ” 

“  How  dare  you,  sir,  forgetful  of  decency, 
and  the  respect  due  a  man’s  rank  and  family, 
insult  him  with  such  a  disgraceful  name  !  ” 

“  What  is  there  disgraceful  about  it  ?  And 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 27 


why  are  you  flourishing  your  hands  so,  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  ?  ” 

“How  dared  you,  I  repeat,  in  disregard  of 
all  decency,  call  me  a  goose  ?  ” 

“  I  spit  on  your  head,  Ivan  Ivanovitch ! 
What  are  you  screaming  so  for  ?  ” 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  could  no  longer  control  him¬ 
self  :  his  lips  quivered  ;  his  mouth  lost  its  usual 
V  shape,  and  became  like  the  letter  O  ;  he 
winked  so  that  he  was  terrible  to  look  at. 
This  very  rarely  happened  with  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch  :  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  be  ex¬ 
tremely  angry  first. 

“  Then,  I  declare  to  you/’  exclaimed  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  “  that  I  will  not  know  you  !  ” 

“A  great  pity!  By  Heaven,  I  shall  never 
cry  on  that  account!”  retorted  Ivan  Nikiforo- 
vitch.  He  lied,  he  lied,  by  Heaven,  he  lied!  it 
was  very  annoying  to  him. 

“I  will  never  put  my  foot  inside  your  house 

•  iff 

again  ! 

“Oho,  ho!”  said  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  vexed, 
yet  not  knowing  himself  what  to  do,  and  rising 
to  his  feet,  contrary  to  his  custom.  “  Hey, 
there,  woman,  boy!”  Thereupon,  there  ap- 


128  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

peared  at  the  door  the  same  fat  woman,  and 
small  boy,  enveloped  in  a  long  and  wide  sur- 
tout.  “Take  Ivan  Ivanovitch  by  the  arms,  and 
lead  him  to  the  door !  ” 

“What!  a  nobleman  ?  ”  shouted  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch  with  a  feeling  of  vexation  and  dignity. 
“Just  do  it  if  you  dare!  Come  on  !  I’ll  anni¬ 
hilate  you  and  your  stupid  master.  The  crow 
won’t  be  able  to  find  your  bones.”  (Ivan  Ivan¬ 
ovitch  spoke  with  uncommon  force  when  his 
spirit  was  up.) 

The  group  presented  a  striking  picture : 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  ;  the  woman  with  her  mouth  wide 
open,  and  the  most  senseless,  terrified  look  on 
her  face;  Ivan  Ivanovitch  with  uplifted  hand, 
as  the  Roman  tribunes  are  depicted.  This  was 
an  extraordinary  moment,  a  magnificent  specta¬ 
cle  :  and  yet  there  was  but  one  spectator;  this 
was  the  boy  in  the  extensive  surtout,  who  stood 
quite  quietly,  and  picked  his  nose  with  his 
finger. 

Finally  Ivan  Ivanovitch  took  his  hat.  “You 
have  behaved  well,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  ex¬ 
tremely  well !  I  shall  remember  it.” 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  1 29 

“  Go,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  go  !  and  see  that  you 
don’t  come  in  my  way :  if  you  do,  I’ll  beat  your 
ugly  face  to  a  jelly,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  !  ” 

“Take  that,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch !  ”  retorted 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  making  an  insulting  gesture, 
and  banged  the  door,  which  squeaked  and  flew 
open  behind  him. 

Ivan  Nikiforovitch  appeared  at  the  door,  and 
wanted  to  add  something  more ;  but  Ivan  Ivan¬ 
ovitch  did  not  glance  back,  and  hastened  from 
the  yard. 


130  HO W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


III. 

WHAT  TOOK  PLACE  AFTER  IVAN  IVANOVITCH’S 
QUARREL  WITH  IVAN  NIKIFOROVITCH. 

And  thus  two  respectable  men,  the  pride  and 
honor  of  Mirgorod,  had  quarrelled,  and  about 
what?  About  a  bit  of  nonsense,  —  a  goose. 
They  would  not  see  each  other,  broke  off  all 
connection,  while  hitherto  they  had  been 
known  as  the  most  inseparable  friends.  Every 
day  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  had 
sent  to  inquire  about  each  other’s  health,  and 
often  conversed  together  from  their  balconies, 
and  said  such  charming  things  as  it  did  the 
heart  good  to  listen  to.  On  Sundays,  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  in  his  lambskin  bekesha,  and  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch,  in  his  yellowish  cinnamon-colored 
nankeen  casakin,  used  to  set  out  for  church 
almost  arm  in  arm  ;  and  if  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  who 
had  remarkably  sharp  eyes,  was  the  first  to 
catch  sight  of  a  puddle  or  any  dirt  in  the  street, 
which  sometimes  happened  in  Mirgorod,  he 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 3 1 


always  said  to  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  “  Look  out ! 
don’t  put  your  foot  there,  it’s  dirty.”  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch,  on  his  side,  exhibited  the  same 
touching  tokens  of  friendship  ;  and  wherever  he 
chanced  to  be  standing,  he  always  held  out  his 
hand  to  Ivan  Ivanovitch  with  his  snuff-box,  say¬ 
ing,  “  Do  me  the  favor  !  ”  And  what  fine  man¬ 
agers  both  were !  .  .  .  And  these  two  friends 
.  .  .  When  I  heard  of  it,  it  struck  me  like  a 
flash  of  lightning.  For  a  long  time  I  would 
not  believe  it.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  had  quarrelled 
with  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  !  Such  worthy  people  ! 
What  is  to  be  depended  upon,  then,  in  this 
world  ? 

When  Ivan  Ivanovitch  reached  home,  he  re¬ 
mained  long  in  a  state  of  strong  excitement. 
He  usually  went,  first  of  all,  to  the  stable,  to 
see  whether  his  mare  was  eating  her  hay  (Ivan 
Ivanovitch  had  a  bay  mare,  with  a  white  star 
on  her  forehead  :  a  very  pretty  little  mare  she 
was  too),  then  to  feed  the  turkeys  and  little  pigs 
with  his  own  hand,  and  then  to  his  room, 
where  he  either  made  wooden  dishes  (he  could 
make  various  vessels  of  wood  very  tastefully, 
quite  as  well  as  any  turner),  or  read  a  book 


1 


132  110 W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


printed  by  Liubia,  Garia  and  Popoff  (Ivan 
Ivanovitch  never  could  remember  the  name, 
because  the  serving-maid  had  long  before  torn 
off  the  top  part  of  the  titlepage  while  amusing 
the  children),  or  rested  on  the  veranda.  But 
now  he  did  not  betake  himself  to  any  of  his  or¬ 
dinary  occupations.  Instead,  on  encountering 
Gapka,  he  began  to  scold  because  she  was  loi¬ 
tering  about  without  any  occupation,  though 
she  was  carrying  groats  to  the  kitchen  ;  flung 
a  stick  at  a  cock  which  came  upon  the  veranda 
for  his  customary  treat ;  and  when  the  dirty 
little  boy,  in  his  little  torn  blouse,  ran  up  to 
him,  and  shouted,  “  Papa,  papa !  give  me  a 
honey-cake,”  he  threatened  him  and  stamped 
at  him  so  fiercely  that  the  frightened  child  fled, 
God  knows  whither. 

But  at  last  he  bethought  himself,  and  began 
to  busy  himself  with  his  every-day  duties.  He 
dined  late,  and  it  was  almost  night  when  he  lay 
down  to  rest  on  the  veranda.  A  good  beet- 
soup  with  pigeons,  which  Gapka  cooked  for 
him,  quite  drove  from  his  mind  the  occurrences 
of  the  morning.  Again  Ivan  Ivanovitch  began 
to  gaze  at  his  belongings  with  satisfaction  :  at 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  133 

•  length  his  eye  rested  on  the  neighboring  yard; 
and  he  said  to  himself,  “  I  have  not  been  to 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  to-day:  I’ll  go  there  now.” 
So  saying,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  took  his  stick  and 
his  hat,  and  directed  his  steps  to  the  street  ; 
but  scarcely  had  he  passed  through  the  gate, 
when  he  recollected  the  quarrel,  spit,  and 
turned  back.  Almost  the  same  thing  hap¬ 
pened  at  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  house.  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  saw  the  woman  put  her  foot  on  the 
fence,  with  the  intention  of  climbing  over  into 
his  yard,  when  suddenly  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s 
voice  became  audible.  “  Back  !  back  !  it  won’t 
do!”  But  Ivan  Ivanovitch  found#it  very  tire¬ 
some.  It  is  quite  possible  that  these  worthy 
men  would  have  made  peace  next  day,  if  a 
certain  occurrence  in  Ivan  Ivanovitch’s  house 
had  not  destroyed  all  hopes,  and  poured  oil 
upon  the  fire  of  enmity  which  was  ready  to  die 
out. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

On  the  evening  of  that  very  day,  Agafya 
Fedosyevna  arrived  at  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s. 
Agafya  Fedosyevna  was  not  Ivan  Nikiforo¬ 
vitch’s  relative,  nor  his  sister-in-law,  nor  even 


134  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


his  fellow-godparent.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
reason  why  she  should  come  to  him,  and  he 
was  not  particularly  glad  of  her  company;  still, 
she  came,  and  lived  on  him  for  weeks  at  a  time, 
and  even  longer.  Then  she  took  possession  of 
the  keys,  and  took  the  whole  house  into  her 
own  hands.  This  was  extremely  displeasing  to 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ;  but  he,  to  his  amazement, 
minded  her  like  a  child ;  and  although  he 
occasionally  attempted  to  dispute,  yet  Agafya 
Fedosyevna  always  got  the  better  of  him. 

I  must  confess  that  I  do  not  understand  why 
things  are  so  arranged,  that  women  seize  us  by 
the  nose  as  deftly  as  they  do  the  handle  of  a 
teapot  :  either  their  hands  are  so  constructed, 
or  else  our  noses  are  good  for  nothing  else. 
And  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Ivan  Niki- 
forovitch’s  nose  somewhat  resembled  a  plum, 
she  grasped  that  nose,  and  led  him  about  after 
her  like  a  dog.  He  even,  in  her  presence,  in¬ 
voluntarily  altered  his  ordinary  manner  of  life. 

Agafya  Fedosyevna  wore  a  cap  on  her  head, 
three  warts  on  her  nose,  and  a  coffee-colored 
cloak  with  yellow  flowers.  Her  figure  was  like 
a  cask,  and  it  would  have  been  as  hard  to  tell 


HO W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 35 


where  to  look  for  her  waist,  as  for  her  to  see 
her  nose  without  a  mirror.  Her  feet  were 
small,  and  formed  in  the  shape  of  two  cushions. 
She  talked  scandal,  and  ate  boiled  beet-soup  in 
the  morning,  and  swore  extremely  well ;  and 
amidst  all  these  various  occupations,  her  coun¬ 
tenance  never  for  one  instant  changed  its  ex¬ 
pression,  which  phenomenon,  as  a  rule,  women 
alone  are  capable  of  displaying. 

Just  as  soon  as  she  arrived,  every  thing  went 
wrong  side  before.  “  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  don’t 
you  make  peace  with  him,  nor  ask  his  forgive¬ 
ness  ;  he  wants  to  ruin  you  ;  that’s  the  kind  of 
man  he  is !  you  don’t  know  him  yet !  ”  that 
cursed  woman  whispered  and  whispered,  and 
managed  so  that  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  would  not 
even  hear  Ivan  Ivanovitch  mentioned. 

All  assumed  another  aspect.  If  his  neigh¬ 
bor’s  dog  ran  into  the  yard,  it  was  beaten  within 
an  inch  of  its  life ;  the  children,  who  climbed 
over  the  fence,  were  sent  back  with  howls, 
their  little  shirts  stripped  up,  and  marks  of  a 
switch  behind ;  even  the  woman,  when  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  undertook  to  ask  her  about  some¬ 
thing,  did  something  so  insulting,  that  Ivan 


136  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


Ivanovitch,  being  an  extremely  delicate  man, 
only  spit,  and  muttered,  “  What  a  nasty  woman  ! 
even  worse  than  her  master  !  ” 

Finally,  as  a  climax  to  all  the  insults,  his 
hated  neighbor  built  a  goose-coop  right  against 
his  fence  where  they  usually  climbed  over,  as 
if  with  the  express  intention  of  redoubling  the 
insult.  This  coop,  so  hateful  to  Ivan  Ivan¬ 
ovitch,  was  constructed  with  diabolical  swift¬ 
ness, —  in  one  day. 

This  aroused  wrath  and  a  desire  for  revenge 
in  Ivan  Ivanovitch.  Nevertheless,  he  showed 
no  signs  of  bitterness,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  coop  trespassed  on  his  land  ;  but  his  heart 
beat  so  violently,  that  it  was  extremely  difficult 
for  him  to  preserve  this  calm  appearance. 

He  passed  through  the  day  in  this  manner. 
Night  came.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  I  were  a  painter,  how 
magnificently  I  would  depict  the  night’s  charms ! 
I  would  describe  how  all  Mirgorod  sleeps ;  how 
steadily  the  myriads  of  stars  gaze  down  upon 
it  ;  how  the  apparent  quiet  is  filled  far  and 
near  with  the  barking  of  dogs  ;  how  the  love¬ 
sick  sacristan  steals  past  them,  and  scales  the 
fence  with  knightly  fearlessness;  how  the  white 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 37 

walls  of  the  houses,  bathed  in  the  moonlight, 
grow  whiter  still,  the  overhanging  trees  darker; 
how  the  shadows  of  the  trees  fall  blacker,  the 
flowers  and  the  silent  grass  become  more  fra¬ 
grant,  and  the  crickets,  unharmonious  cavaliers 
of  the  night,  strike  up  their  rattling  song  in 
friendly  fashion  on  all  sides.  I  would  describe 
how,  in  one  of  these  little,  low-roofed,  clay 
houses,  the  black-browed  village  maid,  toss¬ 
ing  on  her  lonely  couch,  dreams  with  heaving 
bosom  of  hussar’s  spurs  and  mustache,  and 
how  the  moonlight  smiles  upon  her  cheeks.  I 
would  describe  how  the  black  shadows  of  the 
bats  flit  along  the  white  road,  before  they  alight 
upon  the  white  chimneys  of  the  cottages.  .  .  . 
But  it  would  hardly  be  within  my  power  to 
depict  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  as  he  crept  out  that 
night,  saw  in  hand  ;  and  the  various  emotions 
written  on  his  countenance !  Quietly,  so  quietly, 
he  crawled  along,  and  climbed  upon  the  goose- 
coop.  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  dogs  knew  nothing, 
as  yet,  of  the  quarrel  between  them  ;  and  so 
they  permitted  him,  as  an  old  friend,  to  enter 
the  coop,  which  rested  upon  four  oaken  posts. 
Creeping  up  to  the  nearest  post,  he  applied  his 


138  HO W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

saw,  and  began  to  cut.  The  noise  produced  by 
the  saw  caused  him  to  glance  about  him  every 
moment,  but  the  recollection  of  the  insult 
refreshed  his  courage.  The  first  post  was 
sawed  through.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  began  upon 
the  next.  His  eyes  burned,  and  he  saw  nothing 
for  terror.  All  at  once  Ivan  Ivanovitch  uttered 
an  exclamation,  and  became  petrified  with  fear : 
a  dead  man  appeared  to  him  ;  but  he  speedily 
recovered  himself  on  perceiving  that  it  was  a 
goose,  thrusting  its  neck  out  at  him.  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  spit  with  vexation,  and  proceeded 
with  his  work  :  and  the  second  post  was  sawed 
through ;  the  building  trembled.  Ivan  Ivan- 
ovitch’s  heart  beat  so  violently,  when  he  began 
on  the  third,  that  he  had  to  stop  several  times. 
The  post  was  more  than  half  sawed  through, 
when  the  frail  building  quivered  violently.  .  .  . 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  had  barely  time  to  spring 
back  when  it  tumbled  down  with  a  crash. 
Seizing  his  saw,  he  ran  home  in  the  greatest 
terror,  and  flung  himself  upon  his  bed,  without 
having  sufficient  courage  to  peep  from  the 
window  at  the  consequences  of  his  terrible  deed. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  though  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s 


HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 39 


entire  household  assembled :  the  old  woman, 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  the  boy  in  the  endless  sur- 
tout,  all  with  sticks,  .  .  .  led  by  Agafya  Fedo- 
syevna,  were  coming  to  tear  down  and  destroy 
his  house. 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  passed  the  whole  of  the  fol¬ 
lowing  day  in  a  perfect  fever.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  his  detested  neighbor  would  set  fire 
to  his  house  at  least,  in  revenge  for  this  ;  and 
so  he  gave  orders  to  Gapka  to  look  everywhere 
constantly,  and  see  whether  dry  straw  were  laid 
against  it  anywhere.  Finally,  in  order  to  fore¬ 
stall  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  he  determined  to  run 
ahead,  like  a  hare,  and  enter  a  complaint  against 
him  before  the  district  judge  of  Mirgorod.  In 
what  it  consisted,  can  be  learned  from  the  fol¬ 
lowing  chanter. 


140  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


IV. 

WHAT  TOOK  PLACE  BEFORE  THE  DISTRICT  JUDGE 

OF  MIRGOROD. 

A  wonderful  town  is  Mirgorod !  How 
many  buildings  are  there  under  straw,  rush, 
and  even  wooden  roofs !  On  the  right  is  a 
street,  on  the  left  a  street,  and  fine  fences 
everywhere :  over  them  twine  hop-vines,  upon 
them  hang  pots ;  from  behind  them  the  sun¬ 
flowers  show  their  sun-like  heads,  poppies  blush, 
fat  pumpkins  peep,  .  .  .  luxury  itself!  The 
fence  is  always  garnished  with  articles  which 
render  it  still  more  picturesque  :  women’s  wide¬ 
spread  undergarments  of  checked  woollen  stuff, 
shirts  or  trousers.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
theft  or  rascality  in  Mirgorod,  so  everybody 
hangs  upon  his  fence  whatever  strikes  his  fancy. 
If  you  will  go  to  the  square,  you  will  surely 
stop  and  admire  the  view :  a  puddle,  such  a 
wonderful  puddle,  is  there !  the  only  one  you 
ever  saw.  It  occupies  nearly  the  whole  of  the 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  141 


1o 


\  x 

square.  A  truly  magnificent  puddle!  The--,  1 
houses  and  cottages,  which  at  a  distance  might 
be  mistaken  for  hay-ricks,  stand  around  it,  lost  y 
in  admiration  of  its  beauty. 

But  I  agree  with  those  who  think  that  there 
is  no  better  house  than  that  of  the  district 
judge.  Whether  it  is  of  oak  or  birch,  is  noth¬ 
ing  to  the  point ;  but  it  has,  my  dear  sirs,  eight 
windows !  eight  windows  in  a  row,  directly 
on  the  square,  and  upon  that  watery  expanse, 
which  I  have  just  mentioned,  and  which  the 
chief  of  police  calls  a  lake.  It  alone  is  painted 
the  color  of  granite.  All  the  other  houses  in 
Mirgorod  are  merely  whitewashed.  Its  roof  is 
all  of  wood,  and  would  have  been  even  painted 
red,  had  not  the  government  clerks  eaten  the 


lp/ 


oil  which  had  been  prepared  for  that  purpose, 
having  flavored  it  with  garlic,  as  it  happened, 
as  if  expressly,  during  a  fast ;  and  so  the  roof 
remained  unpainted.  Towards  the  square  pro¬ 
jects  a  porch,  which  the  chickens  frequently 
visit,  because  that  porch  is  nearly  always  strewn 
with  grain  or  some  edible,  not  intentionally,  but 
through  the  carelessness  of  visitors.  The  house 
is  divided  into  two  parts  :  one  part  is  the  court- 


( 


142  HOW  THE  TWO  I  VANS  QUARRELLED. 

room  ;  the  other,  the  jail.  In  the  half  which 
contains  the  court-room  are  two  neat,  white¬ 
washed  rooms,  — one,  the  front  one,  for  clients, 
the  other  containing  a  table  adorned  with  ink- 
spots  ;  upon  the  table  is  a  looking-glass  ;  there 
are  four  oak  chairs  with  tall  backs  ;  along  the 
wall  stand  iron-bound  chests,  in  which  are  pre¬ 
served  bundles  of  district  law-suit  papers. 
Upon  one  of  the  chests  stood  at  that  time  a 
pair  of  boots,  polished  with  w,  x. 

The  court  had  been  open  since  morning.  The 
judge,  a  pretty  large  man,  though  thinner 
than  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  with  a  good-natured 
face,  a  greasy  dressing-gown,  a  pipe,  and  a  cup 
of  tea,  was  conversing  with  the  clerk  of  the 
court. 

The  judge’s  lips  were  directly  under  his  nose, 
so  that  he  could  snuff  his  upper  lip  as  much  as 
he  liked.  This  lip  served  him  instead  of  a 
snuff  box,  for  the  snuff  intended  for  his  nose 
almost  always  lodged  upon  it.  So  the  judge  was 
talking  with  the  assistant.  A  barefooted  girl 
held  a  tray  with  cups  on  one  side  of  them.  At 
the  end  of  the  table,  the  secretary  was  reading 
the  decision  in  some  case,  but  in  such  a  mourn- 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  I43 


ful  and  monotonous  voice,  that  the  condemned 
man  himself  would  have  fallen  asleep  while  lis¬ 
tening  to  it.  The  judge,  no  doubt,  would  have 
been  the  first  of  all  to  do  so,  had  he  not  entered 
into  an  engrossing  conversation  while  it  was 
going  on. 

“  I  expressly  tried  to  find  out,”  said  the  judge, 
sipping  his  tea  from  the  already  cold  cup,  “how 
they  manage  to  sing  so  well.  I  had  a  splendid 
thrush  two  years  ago.  Well,  all  of  a  sudden 
he  was  completely  spoiled,  and  began  to  sing, 
God  knows  what :  he  got  worse,  and  worse,  and 
worse,  as  time  went  on  ;  he  began  to  rattle  and 
get  hoarse, — just  good  for  nothing!  And  it’s 
all  nonsense  !  this  is  why  it  happened :  a  little 
lump,  not  so  big  as  a  pea,  came  under  his  throat. 
It  was  only  necessary  to  prick  that  little  swell¬ 
ing  with  a  needle.  Zachar  Prokofievitch  taught 
me  that;  and,  if  you  like,  I’ll  tell  you  just  how 
it  was.  I  go  to  him”  .  .  . 

“  Shall  I  read  another,  Demyan  Demyano- 
vitch  ?  ”  broke  in  the  secretary,  who  had  not 
been  reading  for  several  minutes. 

“  Have  you  finished  already  ?  Just  think  how 
quick !  And  I  did  not  hear  a  word  of  it ! 


144  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


Where  is  it  ?  Give  it  here,  and  I’ll  sign  it. 
What  else  have  you  there  ?  ” 

“The  case  of  Cossack  Boki'tok  for  stealing  a 
cow.” 

“Very  good;  read  it!  Yes,  so  I  go  to  him. 
.  .  .  I  can  even  tell  you  in  detail  how  he  enter¬ 
tained  me.  There  was  vodka  and  dried  stur¬ 
geon,  excellent !  Yes,  not  our  sturgeon  ”  (here 
the  judge  smacked  his  tongue,  and  smiled,  upon 
which  his  nose  took  a  snuff  at  its  usual  snuff¬ 
box),  “such  as  our  Mirgorod  shops  furnish  us. 
I  ate  no  herrings,  for,  as  you  know,  they  give 
me  heart-burn  ;  but  I  tasted  the  caviare, — very 
fine  caviare  !  There’s  no  doubt  about  it,  excel¬ 
lent.  Then  I  drank  some  peach-brandy,  real 
gentian.  There  was  saffron-brandy  too ;  but, 
as  you  know,  I  never  take  that.  You  see,  it 
was  very  good.  In  the  first  place,  to  whet  your 
appetite,  as  they  say,  and  then  to  satisfy  it  .  .  . 
Ah !  speak  of  an  angel  ”...  exclaimed  the 
judge,  all  at  once,  catching  sight  of  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch  as  he  entered. 

“  God  be  with  us  !  I  wish  you  a  good-morn¬ 
ing,”  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  bowing  all  round 
with  his  usual  politeness.  My  God !  how  well 


HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  I45 


he  understood  the  art  of  fascinating  everybody 
with  all  his  ways  !  I  never  beheld  such  refine¬ 
ment.  He  knew  his  own  worth  quite  well,  and 
therefore  looked  for  universal  respect  as  his  due. 
The  judge  himself  handed  Ivan  Ivanovitch  a 
chair ;  and  his  nose  inhaled  all  the  snuff  from 
his  upper  lip,  which,  with  him,  was  always  a 
sign  of  great  pleasure. 

“What  will  you  take,  Ivan  Ivanovitch?”  he 
inquired  :  “  will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea  ?  ” 

“No,  much  obliged,”  replied  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
bowed  and  seated  himself. 

“  Do  me  the  favor,  —  one  little  cup,”  repeated 
the  judge. 

“  No,  thank  you  ;  much  obliged  for  your  hos¬ 
pitality,”  replied  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  and  rose, 
bowed,  and  sat  down. 

“Just  one  little  cup,”  repeated  the  judge. 

“  No,  do  not  trouble  yourself,  Demyan  Dem- 
yanovitch.”  Whereupon  Ivan  Ivanovitch  again 
rose,  bowed,  and  sat  down. 

“  A  little  cup  !  ” 

“Very  well,  then,  just  a  little  cup,”  said  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  and  reached  out  his  hand  to  the  tray. 

My  Heavens  !  What  a  depth  of  refinement 


146  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

there  was  in  that  man!  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  what  a  pleasant  impression  such  man¬ 
ners  produce ! 

“Will  you  not  have  another  cup?” 

“I  thank  you  sincerely, ”  answered  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  turning  his  cup  upside  down  upon 
the  tray,  and  bowing. 

“  Do  me  the  favor,  Ivan  Ivanovitch.” 

“  I  cannot ;  much  obliged.”  Thereupon  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  bowed,  and  sat  down. 

“  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  for  the  sake  of  our  friend¬ 
ship,  just  one  little  cup  !” 

“  No  :  I  am  extremely  indebted  for  your  hos¬ 
pitality.”  So  saying,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  bowed, 
and  seated  himself. 

“  Only  a  cup,  one  little  cup  !  ” 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  put  out  his  hand  to  the  tray, 
and  took  a  cup. 

Oh,  the  deuce !  How,  how  can  a  man  con¬ 
trive  to  support  his  dignity ! 

“  Demyan  Demyanovitch,”  said  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch,  swallowing  the  last  mouthful,  “  I  have 
pressing  business  with  you  :  I  want  to  enter  a 
complaint.” 

Then  Ivan  Ivanovitch  set  down  his  cup,  and 


HO W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED  1 47 


drew  from  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  stamped  paper, 
written  over.  “  A  complaint  against  my  enemy, 
my  sworn  enemy.” 

“  And  who  is  that  ?  ” 

“Ivan  Nikiforovitch  Dovgotchkhun.”  .j 

At  these  words,  the  judge  nearly  fell  off  his 
chair.  “  What  do  you  say  ?  ”  he  exclaimed, 
clasping  his  hands:  “Ivan  Ivanovitch,  is  this 
you  ?  ” 

“You  see  yourself,  that  it  is  I.” 

“  The  Lord  and  all  the  saints  be  with  you ! 
What !  You  !  Ivan  Ivanovitch!  you  have  fallen 
out  with  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  !  Is  it  your  mouth 
which  says  that  ?  Repeat  it !  Is  not  some  one 
hid  behind  you,  who  is  speaking  instead  of 
you  ? 

“What  is  there  incredible  about  it?  I  can’t 
endure  the  sight  of  him  :  he  has  done  me  a 
deadly  injury,  —  he  has  insulted  my  honor.” 

“Holy  Trinity!  How  am  I  to  believe  my 
mother  now  ?  Why,  every  day,  when  I  quarrel 
with  my  sister,  the  old  woman  says,  ‘  Children, 
you  live  together  like  dogs.  If  you  would  only 
take  pattern  by  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Ivan  Niki¬ 
forovitch,  they  are  friends  indeed  !  such  friends ! 


148  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


such  worthy  people !  ’  There  you  are  with 
your  friend !  Tell  me  what  this  is  about. 
How  is  it  ?  ” 

“  It  is  a  delicate  business,  Demyan  Demyano- 
vitch  ;  it  is  impossible  to  relate  it  in  words  :  be 
pleased  rather  to  read  my  petition.  Here,  take 
it  by  this  side  :  it  is  more  convenient.” 

“Read  it,  Taras  Tikhonovitch,”  said  the 

1 

judge,  turning  to  the  secretary.  Taras  Tikho¬ 
novitch  took  the  petition  ;  and  blowing  his 
nose,  as  all  district  judges’  secretaries  blow 
their  noses,  with  the  assistance  of  two  fingers, 
he  began  to  read  :  — 

“From  the  nobleman  and  landed  proprietor 
of  the  Mirgorod  District,  Ivan  Pererepenko,  son 
of  Ivan,  a  petition  :  concerning  which  the  fol¬ 
lowing  points  are  to  be  observed  :  — 

“  1.  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun,  son  of  Nikifor,  noble¬ 
man,  known  to  all  the  world  for  his  godless  acts, 
which  inspire  disgust,  and  in  lawlessness  exceed 
[all  bounds,  on  the  seventh  day  of  July  of  this 
year  1810,  conferred  upon  me  a  deadly  insult, 
as  touching  my  personal  honor,  and  likewise 
as  tending  to  the  humiliation  and  confusion 
of  my  rank  and  family.  The  said  nobleman,  of 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  1 49 

repulsive  aspect,  has  also  a  pugnacious  disposi¬ 
tion,  and  is  full  to  overflowing  of  various  sorts 
of  blasphemy  and  quarrelsome  words.”  .  .  . 

Here  the  reader  paused  for  an  instant,  to 
blow  his  nose  again  ;  but  the  judge  folded  his 
hands  in  approbation,  and  murmured  to  himself, 
“  What  a  ready  pen  !  Lord !  how  that  man 
does  write  !  ” 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  requested  that  the  reading 
might  proceed,  and  Taras  Tikhonovitch  went 
on  :  — 

“The  said  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun,  son  of  Niki¬ 
for,  when  I  went  to  him  with  a  friendly  proposi¬ 
tion,  called  me  publicly  by  an  epithet  insulting 
and  injurious  to  my  honor,  namely,  a  goose , 
whereas  it  is  known  to  the  whole  district  of 
Mirgorod,  that  I  never  was  named  after  that 
disgusting  animal,  and  have  no  intention  of 
ever  being  named  after  it.  And  the  proof  of 
my  noble  extraction  is,  that,  in  the  baptismal 
register  to  be  found  in  the  Church  of  the  Three 
Bishops,  the  day  of  my  birth,  and  likewise  the 
fact  of  my  baptism,  are  inscribed.  But  a  goose, 
as  is  well  known  to  every  one  who  has  any 
knowledge  of  science,  cannot  be  inscribed  in 


*4  ■  m 

pj^  \s^ 

S  150  HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

the  baptismal  register ;  for  a  goose  is  not  a 
man,  but  a  fowl ;  which,  likewise,  is  suffi¬ 
ciently  well  known,  even  to  persons  who  have 
not  been  to  a  seminary.  But  the  said  evil- 
minded  nobleman,  being  privy  to  all  these 
facts,  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  offer  a 
deadly  insult  to  my  rank  and  calling,  affronted 
me  with  the  aforesaid  foul  word. 

“2.  And  the  same  impolite  and  indecent 
nobleman,  moreover,  attempted  injury  to  my 
property,  inherited  by  me  from  my  father,  a . 
gmrnber  of  the  clerical  profession,  Ivan  Pere- 
repenko,  son  of  Onisieff,  of  blessed  memory, 
in  that  he,  contrary  to  all  law,  transported 
directly  opposite  my  porch,  a  goose-coop,  which 
was  done  with  no  other  intention  than  to  em¬ 
phasize  the  insult  offered  me ;  for  the  said  coop 
had,  up  to  that  time,  stood  in  a  very  good  situ¬ 
ation,  and  was  still  sufficiently  strong.  But 
the  loathsome  intention  of  the  aforesaid  noble¬ 
man  consisted  simply  in  this  :  viz.,  in  making 
me  a  witness  of  unpleasant  occurrences  ;  for  it 
is  well  known,  that  no  man  goes  into  a  coop, 
much  less  into  a  goose-coop,  for  polite  pur¬ 
poses.  In  the  commission  of  his  lawless  deed, 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 5  I 

the  two  front  posts  trespassed  on  my  land,  re¬ 
ceived  by  me  during  the  lifetime  of  my  father, 
Ivan  Pererepenko,  son  of  Onisieff,  of  blessed 
memory,  beginning  at  the  granary,  thence  in  a 
straight  line  to  the  spot  where  the  women  wash 
the  pots. 

“  3.  The  above-described  nobleman,  whose 
very  name  and  surname  inspire  thorough  dis¬ 
gust,  cherishes  in  his  mind  a  malicious  design 
to  burn  me  in  my  own  house.  Which  the 
infallible  signs,  hereinafter  mentioned,  fully 
demonstrate  :  in  the  first  place,  the  said  wicked 
nobleman  has  begun  to  emerge  frequently  from 
his  apartments,  which  he  never  did  formerly 
on  account  of  his  laziness  and  the  disgusting 
corpulence  of  his  body  ;  in  the  second  place, 
in  his  servants’  apartments,  adjoining  the  fence, 
surrounding  my  own  land,  received  by  me  from 
my  father,  of  blessed  memory,  Ivan  Perere¬ 
penko,  son  of  Onisieff,  a  light  burns  every  day, 
and  for  a  remarkably  long  period  of  time,  which 
is  also  a  clear  proof  of  the  fact.  For  hitherto, 
owing  to  his  repulsive  niggardliness,  not  only 
the  tallow-candle,  but  also  the  grease-lamp,  has 
been  extinguished. 


152  I/O IV  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


“And  therefore  I  pray  that  the  said  noble¬ 
man,  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun,  son  of  Ivan,  being 
plainly  guilty  of  incendiarism,  of  insult  to  my 
rank,  name,  and  family,  and  of  illegal  appropria¬ 
tion  of  my  property,  and,  worse  than  all  else,  of 
malicious  and  deliberate  addition  to  my  sur- 
name.oLthe  nickname  of  goose,  be  condemned 
by  the  court,  to  fine,  satisfaction,  costs,  and 
damages,  and  that  the  aforesaid  be  put  in  irons 
as  a  criminal,  and,  being  chained,  be  removed 
to  the  town  jail,  and  that  judgment  be  ren¬ 
dered  upon  this,  my  petition,  immediately  and 
without  delay. 

“  Written  and  composed  by  Ivan  Perere- 
penko,  son  of  Ivan,  nobleman,  and  landed  pro¬ 
prietor  of  Mirgorod.” 

After  the  reading  of  the  petition  was  con¬ 
cluded,  the  judge  approached  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
took  him  by  the  button,  and  began  to  talk  to 
him  after  this  fashion.  “  What  are  you  doing, 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  ?  Fear  God  !  throw  away  that 
petition,  let  it  go  !  may  Satan  carry  it  off !  Bet¬ 
ter  take  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  by  the  hand,  and 
kiss  him,  and  buy  some  Santurinski  or  Niko- 
polski  liquor,  simply  make  a  punch,  and  call 


HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  1 53 


me.  We  will  drink  it  up  together,  and  forget 
all.” 

“No,  Demyan  Demyanovitch  !  it's  not  that 
sort  of  an  affair,”  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  with  the 
dignity  which  always  became  him  so  well :  “it 
is  not  an  affair  which  can  be  arranged  by  a 
friendly  agreement.  Farewell  !  Good-day  to 
you  also,  gentlemen,”  he  continued  with  the 
same  dignity,  turning  to  them  all.  “  I  hope 
that  my  petition  will  give  rise  to  the  proper 
action  ;  ”  and  out  he  went,  leaving  all  present 
in  a  state  of  stupefaction. 

The  judge  sat  down  without  uttering  a  word; 
the  secretary  took  a  pinch  of  snuff ;  the  clerks 
upset  some  broken  fragments  of  bottles  which 
served  for  inkstands;  and  the  judge  himself,  in 
absence  of  mind,  spread  out  a  puddle  of  ink 
upon  the  table  with  his  finger. 

“What  do  you  say  to  this,  Dorofei  Trofimo- 
vitch  ?  ”  said  the  judge,  turning  to  the  assistant 
after  a  pause. 

“  I’ve  nothing  to  say,”  replied  the  clerk. 

“What  things  do  go  on!”  continued  the 
judge.  He  had  not  finished  saying  this,  when 
the  door  creaked,  and  the  front  half  of  Ivan 


154  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

Nikiforovitch  presented  itself  in  the  court-room  : 
the  rest  of  him  remained  in  the  ante-room. 
The  appearance  of  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  and  in 
court,  too,  seemed  so  extraordinary,  that  the 
judge  screamed;  the  secretary  stopped  read¬ 
ing  ;  and  one  clerk,  in  his  frieze  imitation  of  a 
dress-coat,  took  his  pen  in  his  lips ;  and  the 

other  swallowed  a  fly  ;  even  the  constable  on 

% 

service,  and  the  watchman,  a  discharged  sob 
dier,  who  up  to  that  moment  had  stood  by 
the  door  scratching  about  his  dirty  blouse,  with 
its  chevrons  of  merit  on  the  shoulder,  even  this 
invalid  dropped  his  jaw,  and  trod  on  some 
one’s  foot. 

“  What  chance  brings  you  here  ?  What  and 
how  ?  How  is  your  health,  Ivan  Nikiforo¬ 
vitch  ?  ” 

But  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  was  neither  dead  nor 
alive  ;  for  he  was  stuck  fast  in  the  door,  and 
could  not  take  a  step  either  forwards  or  back¬ 
wards.  In  vain  did  the  judge  shout  into  the 
ante-room  that  some  one  there  should  push 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  forward  into  the  court-room. 
In  the  ante-room  was  only  one  old  woman 
with  a  petition,  who,  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  1 55 

of  her  bony  hands,  could  accomplish  nothing. 
Then  one  of  the  clerks,  with  thick  lips,  wide 
shoulders,  and  a  thick  nose,  with  eyes  which 

m 

looked  askance  and  intoxicated,  and  with  ragged 
elbows,  approached  the  front  half  of  Ivan  Niki- 
forovitch,  crossed  his  hands  for  him  as  though 
he  had  been  a  child,  and  winked  at  the  old 
soldier,  who  braced  his  knee  against  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch’s  belly,  and,  in  spite  of  the  lat¬ 
ter’s  piteous  moans,  he  was  squeezed  out  into 
the  ante-room.  Then  they  pulled  the  bolts, 
and  opened  the  other  half  of  the  door.  Mean¬ 
while  the  clerk  and  his  assistant,  the  soldier, 
breathing  hard  with  their  friendly  exertions, 
exhaled  such  a  strong  odor  that  the  court¬ 
room  seemed  temporarily  converted  into  a 
drinking-room. 

“  Did  you  hurt  yourself,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ? 
I  will  tell  my  mother  to  send  you  a  decoction 
of  brandy,  with  which  you  need  but  to  rub 
your  back  and  stomach,  and  all  your  bad  feel¬ 
ings  will  disappear.” 

But  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  dropped  into  a  chair, 
and  could  utter  no  word  beyond  prolonged  oil's. 
Finally,  in  a  voice  feeble  and  barely  audible 


156  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

from  fatigue,  he  exclaimed,  “  Wouldn’t  you 
like  some?”  and,  drawing  his  snuff-box  from 
his  pocket,  he  added,  “  Help  yourself,  if  you 
please.” 

“ Very  glad  to  see  you,”  replied  the  judge; 
“but  I  cannot  conceive  what  made  you  put 
yourself  to  so  much  trouble,  and  favor  us  with 
so  unexpected  an  honor.” 

“A  petition!”  .  .  .  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  man¬ 
aged  to  ejaculate. 

“  A  petition  ?  What  petition  ?  ” 

“A  complaint”  .  .  .  (here  the  asthma  en¬ 
tailed  a  prolonged  pause)  —  “  Oh  !  —  a  com¬ 
plaint  against  the  rascal  —  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
Pererepenko !  ” 

“And  you  too!  Such  particular  friends! 
A  complaint  against  such  a  benevolent  man  !  ” 

“He’s  Satan  himself!”  ejaculated  Ivan  Niki¬ 
forovitch  abruptly. 

The  judge  crossed  himself. 

“Take  my  petition,  and  read  it.” 

“  There  is  nothing  to  be  done.  Read  it,  Taras 
Tikhonovitch,”  said  the  judge,  turning  to  the 
secretary  with  an  expression  of  displeasure, 
which  caused  his  nose  to  sniff  at  his  upper  lip, 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  1 57 


which  generally  occurred  only  as  a  sign  of 
great  enjoyment.  This  independence  on  the 
part  of  his  nose  caused  the  judge  still  greater 
vexation.  He  pulled  out  his  handkerchief,  and 
rubbed  off  all  the  snuff  from  his  upper  lip, 
in  order  to  punish  it  for  its  daring. 

The  secretary,  having  gone  through  his  usual 
performance,  which  he  always  indulged  in  be¬ 
fore  he  began  to  read,  —  that  is  to  say,  without 
the  aid  of  a  pocket-handkerchief,  —  began  in 
his  ordinary  voice,  in  the  following  manner  :  — 
“  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun,  son  of  Nikofor,  noble¬ 
man  of  the  Mirgorod  District,  offers  a  petition, 
and  begs  attention  to  the  following  points  :  — 

“  1.  Through  his  hateful  malice,  and  plainly 
manifested  ill  will,  the  person  calling  himself 
a  nobleman,  Ivan  Pererepenko,  son  of  Ivan, 
commits  against  me  every  manner  of  injury, 
damage,  and  other  spiteful  deeds,  which  inspire 
me  with  terror  ;  and  yesterday  at  afternoon,  like 
a  brigand  and  a  thief,  with  axes,  saws,  chisels, 
and  various  locksmith’s  tools,  he  came  by  night 
into  my  yard,  and  into  my  own  goose-coop 
located  within  it,  and  with  his  own  hand,  and 
in  outrageous  manner,  destroyed  it ;  for  which 


158  HO W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

very  illegal  and  burglarious  deed,  on  my  side 
I  gave  no  manner  of  cause. 

“  2.  The  same  nobleman  Pererepenko  has 
designs  upon  my  life  ;  and  on  the  7th  of  last 
month,  cherishing  this  design  in  secret,  he 
came  to  me,  and  began,  in  a  friendly  and  sly 
manner,  to  demand  of  me  a  gun  which  was  in 
my  chamber,  and  offered  me  for  it,  with  the 
miserliness  peculiar  to  him,  many  worthless 
[objects,  such  as  a  brown  sow  and  two  sacks  of 
oats.  But,  divining  at  that  time  his  criminal 
intentions,  I  endeavored  in  every  way  to  dis¬ 
suade  him  from  it ;  but  the  said  rascal  and 
scoundrel,  Ivan  Pererepenko,  son  of  Ivan, 
abused  me  like  a  muzhik,  and  since  that  time 
has  cherished  against  me  an  irreconcilable  en¬ 
mity.  His,  sister  was  well  known  to  all  the 
world  as  a  loose  character,  and  went  off  with 
a  regiment  of  chasseurs  which  was  stationed  at 
Mirgorod,  five  years  ago  ;  but  she  inscribed  her 
husband  as  a  peasant.  His  father  and  mother 
also  were  not  law-abiding  people,  and  both  were 
inconceivable  drunkards.  The  afore-mentioned 
nobleman  and  robber  Pererepenko,  in  his  beast¬ 
ly  and  blameworthy  actions,  goes  beyond  all 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 59 

his  family,  and  under  the  guise  of  piety  does 
the  most  immoral  things.  He  does  not  observe 
the  fasts ;  for  on  the  eve  of  St.  Philip’s  this 
atheist  bought  a  sheep,  and  the  next  day  he 
ordered  his  mistress,  Gapka,  to  kill  it,  alleging 
that  he  needed  tallow  for  lamps  and  candles  at 
once. 

“Therefore  I  pray  that  the  said  nobleman,  a 
manifest  robber,  church-thief,  rascal,  convicted 
of  plundering  and  stealing,  may  be  put  in  irons, 
and  confined  in  the  jail  or  the  government 
prison,  and  there,  under  supervision,  deprived 
of  his  rank  and  nobility,  he  may  be  well  flogged 
by  barbarians,  and  banished  to  forced  labor  in 
Siberia  for  cause,  and  that  he  may  be  com¬ 
manded  to  pay  damages,  losses,  and  that  judg¬ 
ment  may  be  rendered  on  this  my  petition. 

“To  this  petition,  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun,  son  of 
Nikofor,  noble  of  the  Mirgorod  District,  has 
set  his  hand.” 

As  soon  as  the  secretary  had  finished  reading, 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  seized  his  hat,  and  bowed, 
with  the  intention  of  departing. 

“Where  are  you  going,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ?  ” 
the  judge  called  after  him.  “  Sit  yet  a  little 


l6o  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


while.  Drink  some  tea.  Orishko,  why  are 
you  standing  there,  you  stupid  girl,  winking  at 
the  clerks  ?  Go,  bring  tea.” 

But  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  in  terror  at  having 
got  so  far  from  home,  and  at  having  undergone 
such  a  fearful  quarantine,  made  haste  to  crawl 
through  the  door,  saying,  “  Don’t  trouble  your¬ 
self.  It  is  with  pleasure  that  I  ”  —  and  closed 
it  after  him,  leaving  all  present  stupefied. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  Both  peti¬ 
tions  were  entered  ;  and  the  affair  promised  to 
assume  a  sufficiently  serious  aspect,  when  an 
unforeseen  occurrence  gave  an  added  interest 
to  it.  As  the  judge  was  leaving  the  court,  in 
company  with  the  clerk  and  secretary,  and  the 
employees  were  thrusting  into  sacks  the  fowls, 
eggs,  chunks  of  bread,  pies,  cracknels,  and  other 
odds  and  ends  brought  by  plaintiffs, — just  at 
that  moment  a  brown  sow  rushed  into  the 
room,  and  snatched,  to  the  amazement  of  the 
spectators,  neither  a  pie  nor  a  crust  of  bread, 
but  Ivan  Nikiforovitch^  petition,  which  lay  on 
the  end  of  the  table,  with  its  leaves  hanging 
over.  Having  seized  the  document,  mistress 
sow  ran  off  so  briskly  that  not  one  of  the  clerks 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  l6l 

or  officials  could  catch  her,  in  spite  of  the  rulers 
and  ink-bottles  they  hurled  after  her. 

This  extraordinary  occurrence  produced  a 
terrible  muddle,  for  there  had  not  even  a  copy 
been  taken  of  the  petition.  The  judge  —  that  is 
to  say,  his  secretary  —  and  the  assistant  debated 
for  a  long  time  upon  such  an  unheard-of  affair. 
Finally  it  was  decided  to  write  a  report  of  the 
matter  to  the  prefect,  as  the  investigation  of 
the  matter  pertained  more  to  the  department 
of  the  city  police.  Report  No.  389  was  de¬ 
spatched  to  him  that  same  day;  and  also  upon 
that  day  there  came  to  light  a  sufficiently  curi¬ 
ous  explanation,  which  the  reader  can  learn 
from  the  following  chapter. 


1 62  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


V. 

IN  WHICH  ARE  DETAILED  THE  DELIBERATIONS 

f 

OF  TWO  IMPORTANT  PERSONAGES  OF  MIRGOROD. 

As  soon  as  Ivan  Ivanovitch  had  arranged  his 
domestic  affairs,  and  stepped  out  upon  the  ve¬ 
randa,  according  to  his  custom,  to  lie  down, 
then,  to  his  indescribable  amazement,  he  saw 
something  red  at  the  gate.  This  was  the  red 
facings  of  the  chief  of  police’s  coat,  which  were 
polished  equally  with  his  collar,  and  had  turned 
on  the  edges  into  varnished  leather.  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  thought  to  himself,  “It’s  not  bad 
that  Peter  Fedorovitch  has  come  to  talk  it 
over.”  But  he  was  very  much  surprised  to 
see  that  the  chief  was  walking  remarkably  fast, 
and  flourishing  his  hands,  which  very  rarely 
happened  with  him.  There  were  eight  buttons 
planted  about  on  the  chief  of  police’s  uniform  : 
the  ninth,  torn  off  in  some  manner  during  the 
procession  at  the  consecration  of  the  church 
two  years  before,  the  desyatskie  had  not  been 


HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 63 

able  to  find  up  to  this  time  ;  although  the 
chief,  on  the  occasion  of  the  daily  reports 
made  to  him  by  the  sergeants  of  police, 
always  asked,  “  Has  that  button  been  found  ?  ” 
These  eight  buttons  were  strewn  about  him 
as  women  sow  beans,  —  one  to  the  right, 
and  one  to  the  left.  His  left  foot  had  been 
struck  by  a  ball  in  the  last  campaign,  and 
therefore  he  limped,  and  threw  it  out  so  far  to 
one  side  as  to  almost  counteract  the  efforts  of 
the  right  foot.  The  more  briskly  the  chief  of 
police  worked  his  walking  apparatus,  the  less 
progress  it  made  in  advance  ;  and  so,  while 
the  chief  was  getting  to  the  veranda,  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  had  plenty  of  time  to  lose  himself 
in  surmises  as  to  why  the  chief  was  flourishing 
his  hands  so  vigorously.  This  interested  him 
the  more,  as  the  matter  seemed  one  of  unusual 
importance  ;  for  the  chief  had  on  a  new  dagger. 

“  Good-morning,  Peter  Feodorovitch  !  ”  cried 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  who  was,  as  has  already  been 
stated,  exceedingly  curious,  and  could  not  re¬ 
strain  his  impatience  at  the  sight  as  the  chief 
of  police  began  to  ascend  to  the  veranda,  yet 
never  raised  his  eyes,  and  scolded  at  his  foot, 


164  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

which  could  not  be  persuaded  to  mount  the 
step  at  only  one  flourish. 

“  I  wish  my  good  friend  and  benefactor,  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  a  good-day, ”  replied  the  chief. 

“  Pray  sit  down.  I  see  that  you  are  weary,  as 
your  lame  foot  hinders  ”  .  .  . 

“  My  foot !  ”  screamed  the  chief,  bestowing 
upon  Ivan  Ivanovitch  a  glance  such  as  a  giant 
might  cast  upon  a  pygmy,  a  pedant  upon  a  dan¬ 
cing-master  :  thereupon  he  stretched  out  his 
foot,  and  stamped  upon  the  floor  with  it.  But 
this  boldness  cost  him  dear;  for  his  whole  body 
wavered,  and  his  nose  struck  the  railing  ;  but 
the  brave  preserver  of  order,  with  the  purpose 
of  making  light  of  it,  righted  himself  immedi¬ 
ately,  and  began  to  feel  in  his  pocket  as  if  to 
get  his  snuff-box.  “  I  must  report  to  you,  my 
dear  friend  and  benefactor,  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
that  never  in  all  my  days  have  I  made  such  a 
march.  Yes,  seriously.  For  instance,  during 
the  campaign  of  1807.  •  •  •  Ah!  I  will  relate 
to  you  in  what  manner  I  crawled  through  the 
enclosure  to  see  a  pretty  little  German.”  Here 
the  chief  closed  one  eye,  and  executed  a  dia¬ 
bolically  sly  smile. 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 65 

“  Where  have  you  been  to-day  ?  ”  asked  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  wishing  to  cut  the  chief  short,  and 
bring  him  more  speedily  to  the  object  of  his 
visit.  He  would  have  very  much  liked  to  in¬ 
quire  what  the  chief  meant  to  tell  him,  but 
his  extensive  knowledge  of  the  world  showed 
him  all  the  impropriety  of  such  a  question ; 
and  so  Ivan  Ivanovitch  had  to  keep  himself 
well  in  hand,  and  await  a  solution,  his  heart, 
meanwhile,  beating  with  unusual  force. 

“  Ah,  excuse  me  !  I  was  going  to  tell  you  — 
where  was  I  ?  ”  answered  the  chief  of  police. 
“  In  the  first  place,  I  report  that  the  weather  is 
fine  to-day  ”... 

At  these  last  words,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  nearly 
died. 

“But  permit  me,”  went  on  the  chief.  “I 
came  to  you  to-day  about  a  very  important 
affair.”  Here  the  chief’s  face  and  bearing 
assumed  the  same  careworn  guise  with  which 
he  had  ascended  to  the  veranda.  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch  lived  again,  and  shook  as  if  in  a  fever, 
omitting  not,  as  was  his  habit,  to  put  a  ques¬ 
tion.  “What  is  the  important  matter?  Is  it 
important  ?  ” 


1 66  IIOW  TI1E  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED , 

“  Pray  judge  for  yourself :  first  I  venture  to 
report  to  you,  dear  friend  and  benefactor,  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  that  you  ...  I  beg  you  to  observe 
that,  for  my  own  part,  I  should  have  nothing  to 
say;  but  the  rules  of  government  require  it  .  .  . 
you  have  transgressed  the  rules  of  propriety/' 

“What  do  you  say,  Peter  Feodorovitch  ?  I 
don’t  understand  at  all.” 

“Pardon  me,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  !  how  is  it  that 
you  do  not  understand?  Your  own  beast  has 
destroyed  a  very  important  government  docu¬ 
ment  ;  and  you  can  still  say,  after  that,  that  you 
do  not  understand  !  ” 

“  What  beast  ?  ” 

“Your  own  brown  sow,  with  your  permission, 
be  it  said.” 

“  How  am  I  responsible  ?  Why  did  the  jani¬ 
tor  of  the  court  open  the  door  ?  ” 

“  But,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  your  own  brown  sow. 
You  must  be  responsible.” 

“  I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  compar¬ 
ing  me  to  a  sow.” 

“But  I  did  not  say  that,  Ivan  Ivanovitch! 
By  Heavens  !  I  did  not  say  it !  Pray  judge 
from  your  own  clear  conscience.  It  is  known 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  1 67 

to  you  without  doubt,  that,  in  accordance  with 
the  views  of  the  government,  unclean  animals 
are  forbidden  to  roam  about  the  city,  particu¬ 
larly  in  the  principal  streets.  Confess,  now, 
that  it  is  prohibited.” 

“  God  knows  what  you  are  talking  about ! 
A  mighty  important  business,  that  a  sow  got 
into  the  street !  ” 

“Permit  me  to  inform  you,  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
permit  me,  permit  me,  that  this  is  utterly  impos¬ 
sible.  What  is  to  be  done  ?  The  authorities 
command,  we  must  obey.  I  don’t  deny,  that 
sometimes  chickens  and  geese  run  about  the 
streets,  and  even  about  the  square,  —  pray  ob¬ 
serve,  chickens  and  geese  ;  but  only  last  year, 
I  gave  orders  that  pigs  and  goats  were  not  to 
be  admitted  to  the  public  squares,  which  regu¬ 
lations  I  directed  to  be  read  aloud  at  the  time, 
in  the  assembly  before  all  the  people.” 

“No,  Peter  Feodorovitch,  I  see  nothing  here 
except  that  you  are  doing  your  best  to  insult 
me.” 

“  But  you  cannot  say,  my  dearest  friend  and 
benefactor,  that  I  have  tried  to  insult  you. 
Bethink  yourself  :  I  never  said  a  word  to  you 


1 68  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

last  year  when  you  built  a  roof  a  whole  arshin 
higher  than  was  fixed  by  law.  On  the  contrary, 
I  pretended  not  to  have  observed  it.  Believe 
me,  my  dearest  friend,  even  now,  I  would,  so  to 
speak  .  .  .  but  my  duty,  in  a  word,  my  obliga¬ 
tions,  demand  that  I  should  have  an  eye  to 
cleanliness.  Just  judge  for  yourself,  when 
suddenly  in  the  principal  street  ”  .  .  . 

“  Fine  principal  streets  yours  are !  Every 
woman  goes  there  and  throws  down  any 
rubbish  she  chooses.” 

“Permit  me  to  inform  you,  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
that  it  is  you  who  are  insulting  me.  In  fact, 
that  does  sometimes  happen,  but,  as  a  rule,  only 
beside  fences,  sheds,  or  storehouses ;  but  that 
a  filthy  sow  should  intrude  herself  in  the  main 
street,  in  the  square,  now  that’s  a  matter”  .  .  . 

“What  sort  of  a  matter?  Peter  Feodoro- 
vitch  !  surely  a  sow  is  one  of  God’s  creatures  !  ” 

“  Agreed.  Everybody  knows  that  you  are  a 
learned  man,  that  you  are  acquainted  with 
sciences  and  various  other  subjects.  In  short, 
I  never  studied  the  sciences  :  I  began  to  learn 
to  write  in  my  thirteenth  year.  Of  course  you 
know  that  I  was  a  soldier  in  the  ranks.” 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  169 

“  Hm  ! ”  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch. 

“Yes,”  continued  the  chief  of  police,  “in 
1801  I  was  in  the  Forty-second  Regiment  of 
chasseurs,  lieutenant  in  the  Fourth  Battalion. 
The  commander  of  our  battalion  was,  if  I  may 
be  permitted  to  mention  it,  Capt.  Eremeeff.” 
Thereupon  the  chief  of  police  thrust  his  fingers 
into  the  snuff-box  which  Ivan  Ivanovitch  was 
holding  open,  and  stirred  up  the  snuff. 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  answered,  “  Hm  !  ” 

“But  my  duty,”  went  on  the  chief  of  police, 
“is  to  obey  the  commands  of  the  authorities. 
Do  you  know,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  that  a  person 
who  purloins  a  government  document  in  the 
court-room  incurs  capital  punishment,  equally 
with  other  criminals  ?  ” 

“  I  know  it ;  and,  if  you  like,  I  can  give  you 
lessons.  It  is  so  ordered  with  regard  to  peo¬ 
ple, —  as  if  you,  for  instance,  were  to  steal  a 
document ;  but  a  sow  is  an  animal,  one  of  God’s 
creatures.” 

“  Certainly  ;  but  the  law  reads,  ‘  Those  guilty 
of  theft  ’  .  .  .  I  beg  you  to  listen  most  atten¬ 
tively,  —  ‘  Those  guilty  !  9  Here  is  indicated 
neither  race  nor  sex  nor  rank  :  of  course,  an 


170  I/O  IV  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


animal  can  be  guilty.  You  may  say  what  you 
please  ;  but  the  animal,  until  the  sentence  is 
pronounced  by  the  court,  should  be  committed 
to  the  charge  of  the  police,  as  a  transgressor  of 
the  law.” 

“No,  Peter  Feodorovitch,”  retorted  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  coolly,  “that  shall  not  be.” 

“As  you  like:  only  I  must  carry  out  the 
orders  of  the  authorities.” 

“What  are  you  threatening  me  with  ?  Prob¬ 
ably  you  want  to  send  that  one-armed  soldier 
after  her.  I  shall  order  the  woman  who  tends 
the  door,  to  drive  him  off  with  the  poker :  he’ll 
get  his  last  arm  broken.” 

“  I  dare  not  dispute  with  you.  In  case  you 
will  not  commit  her  to  the  charge  of  the  police, 
then  do  what  you  please  with  her :  kill  her  for 
Christmas,  if  you  like,  and  make  hams  of  her, 
or  eat  her  as  she  is.  Only  I  should  like  to  ask 
^you^Jj^^caso  you  make  sausages,  to  send  me  a 
couple 
blood 

j  s - — 

extremely  fond  of  them.” 

“  I  will  send  you  a  couple  of  sausages  if  you 
permit.” 


such  as  your  Gapka  makes  so  well  of 

grafena  Trofimovna  is 


ard.  My 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 7 1 


“  I  shall  be  extremely  obliged  to  you,  dear 
friend  and  benefactor.  Now  permit  me  to  say 
one  word  more.  I  am  commissioned  by  the 
judge,  as  well  as  by  all  our  acquaintances,  so  to 
speak,  to  effect  a  reconciliation  between  you 
and  your  friend,  Ivan  Nikiforovich/' 

“  What !  with  that  brute  !  I  am  to  be  recon¬ 
ciled  to  that  clown  !  Never  !  It  shall  not  be, 
it  shall  not  be !  "  Ivan  Ivanovitch  was  in  a  re¬ 
markably  determined  frame  of  mind. 

“As  you  like,"  replied  the  chief  of  police, 
treating  both  nostrils  to  snuff.  “  I  will  not 
venture  to  advise  you  ;  but  permit  me  to  men¬ 
tion  —  here  you  live  at  enmity,  and  if  you 
make  peace  "... 

But  Ivan  Ivanovitch  began  to  talk  about 
catching  quail,  as  he  usually  did  when  he 
wanted  to  put  an  end  to  a  conversation.  So 
the  chief  of  - police  was  obliged  to  retire  with¬ 
out  having  achieved  any  success  whatever. 


172  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


VI. 

FROM  WHICH  THE  READER  CAN  EASILY  DIS¬ 
COVER  WHAT  IS  CONTAINED  IN  IT. 

In  spite  of  all  the  judge’s  efforts  to  keep  the 
matter  secret,  all  Mirgorod  knew  by  the  next 
day  that  Ivan  Ivanovitch’s  sow  had  stolen  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch’s  petition.  The  chief  of  police 
himself,  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness,  was  the 
first  to  betray  himself.  When  Ivan  Nikiforo- 
vitch  was  informed  of  it,  he  said  nothing :  he 
merely  inquired,  “  Was  it  the  brown  one  ?  ” 

But  Agafya  Fedosyevna,  who  was  present, 
P began  agath  ""To  urge  Ivan  Nikiforovitch. 
“  What’s  the  matter  with  you,  Ivan  Nikiforo¬ 
vitch  ?  People  will  laugh  at  you  as  at  a  fool  if 
you  let  it  pass.  How  can  you  remain  a  noble¬ 
man  after  that?  You  will  be  worse  than  the 
old  woman  who  sells  the  honey-cakes  with 
hemp-seed  oil,  you  are  so  fond  of.”  And  the 
mischief-maker  persuaded  him.  She  hunted  up 
somewhere  a  middle-aged  man  with  black  com- 

\ 

\ 

V 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  173 

plexion,  and  spots  all  over  his  face,  and  a  dark- 
blue  surtout  patched  on  the  elbows,  — a  regular 
official  scribbler.  He  blacked  his  boots  with 
tar,  wore  three  pens  behind  his  ear,  and  a  glass 
bubble  tied  to  his  button-hole  with  a  string, 
instead  of  an  ink-bottle :  he  ate  as  many  as 
nine  pies  at  once,  and  put  the  tenth  in  his 
pocket,  and  wrote  so  many  slanders  of  all  sorts 
on  a  single  sheet  of  stamped  paper,  that  no 
reader  could  get  through  all  at  one  time  with¬ 
out  interspersing  coughs  and  sneezes.  This 
poor  imitation  of  a  man  labored,  toiled,  and 
wrote,  and  finally  concocted  the  following 
document :  — 

“To  the  District  Judge  of  Mirgorod,  from 
the  noble,  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun,  son  of  Nikifor. 

“  In  pursuance  of  my  petition  which  was 
presented  by  me,  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun,  son  of 
Nikifor,  in  connection  with  the  nobleman,  Ivan 
Pererepenko,  son  of  Ivan  ;  to  which  also,  the 
judge  of  the  Mirgorod  district  court  exhibited 
his  indifference.  And  the  shameless,  high¬ 
handed  deed  of  the  brown  sow  being  kept 
secret,  and  coming  to  my  ears  from  outside 
parties. 


174  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


“  And  the  said  allowing  and  neglect,  plainly 
malicious,  lies  incontestably  at  the  judge’s  door; 
for  the  sow  is  a  stupid  animal,  and  therefore 
less  fitted  for  the  theft  of  papers.  From 
which  it  plainly  appears,  that  the  said  fre¬ 
quently  mentioned  sow  was  not  otherwise  than 
instigated  to  the  same  by  the  opponent,  Ivan 
Pererepenko,  son  of  Ivan,  calling  himself  a 
nobleman,  and  already  convicted  of  theft,  con¬ 
spiracy  against  life,  and  desecration  of  a 
church.  But  the  said  Mirgorod  judge,  with 
the  partisanship  peculiar  to  him,  gave  his  pri¬ 
vate  consent  to  this  individual ;  for  without 
such  consent  the  said  sow  could  by  no  possible 
means  have  been  admitted  to  carry  off  the  doc¬ 
ument  ;  for  the  judge  of  the  district  court  of 
Mirgorod  is  well  provided  with  servants  :  it  was 
only  necessary  to  summon  a  soldier,  who  is 
always  on  duty  in  the  reception-room,  and  who, 
although  he  has  but  one  eye  and  one  somewhat 
damaged  arm,  has  powers  quite  adequate  to 
driving  out  a  sow,  and  to  beating  it  with  a  club, 
from  which  is  credibly  evident  the  criminal 
neglect  of  the  said  Mirgorod  judge,  and  the 
incontestable  sharing  of  the  Jew-like  spoils 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 75 


therefrom  resulting  between  these  mutual  con¬ 
spirators.  And  the  aforesaid  robber  and  noble¬ 
man,  Ivan  Pererepenko,  son  of  Ivan,  having 
disgraced  himself,  finished  his  turning  on  his 
lathe.  Wherefore  I,  the  noble,  Ivan  Dovgotch- 
khun,  son  of  Nikifor,  declare  to  the  said  dis¬ 
trict  judge,  in  proper  form,  that  if  the  said 
brown  sow,  or  the  man  Pererepenko,  who  was 
mentioned  in  the  petition,  in  league  with  her, 
be  not  summoned  to  the  court,  and  judgment  in 
accordance  with  justice  and  my  advantage  pro¬ 
nounced  upon  her,  then  I,  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun, 
son  of  Nikifor,  shall  present  a  complaint,  with 
observance  of  all  due  formalities,  against  the 
said  district  judge,  for  his  illegal  partisanship, 
to  the  superior  courts. 

“  Ivan  Dovgotchkhun,  son  of  Nikifor,  noble 
of  the  Mirgorod  District.” 

This  petition  produced  its  effect.  The  judge 
was  a  man  of  timid  disposition,  as  all  good  peo¬ 
ple  generally  are.  He  betook  himself  to  the 
secretary.  But  the  secretary  emitted  from  his 
lips  a  thick  hm ,  and  exhibited  in  his  counte¬ 
nance  that  indifferent  and  diabolically  equivocal 
expression  which  Satan  alone  assumes  when 


176  IIOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 


he  sees  his  victim  hasting  to  his  feet.  One 
resource  remained,  —  to  reconcile  the  two 
friends.  But  how  set  about  it,  when  all  at¬ 
tempts  up  to  that  time  had  been  so  unsuccess¬ 
ful  ?  Nevertheless,  it  was  decided  to  make 
another  effort ;  but  Ivan  Ivanovitch  declared 
downright  that  he  would  not  hear  to  it,  and 
even  *  flew  into  a  violent  passion.  Ivan  Niki- 
forovitch,  in  lieu  of  an  answer,  turned  his  back, 
and  would  not  utter  >a  word.  Then  the  case 
went  on  with  the  unusual  promptness,  upon 
which  courts  usually  pride  themselves.  Docu¬ 
ments  were  dated,  labelled,  numbered,  sewed 
together,  registered,  all  in  one  day,  and  the 
matter  laid  on  the  shelf,  where  it  continued  to 
lie,  lie,  lie,  for  one,  two,  or  three  years.  Many 
brides  were  married  ;  a  new  street  was  laicf  out 
in  Mirgorod;  one  of  the  judge’s  double  teeth 
fell  out,  and  two  of  his  eye-teeth  ;  more  children 
than  ever  ran  about  Ivan  Ivanovitch’s  yard; 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  as  reproof  to  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch,  had  constructed  a  new  goose-coop,  al¬ 
though  a  little  farther  off  than  the  first,  and 
built  himself  completely  off  from  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch,  so  that  these  worthy  people  almost  never 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 77 


beheld  each  other's  faces  ;  and  still  the  case 
lay  on,  in  the  very  best  order,  in  the  cabinet, 
which  had  become  marbled  with  ink-spots. 

In  the  mean  time  a  very  important  event  for 
all  Mirgorod  had  taken  place.  The  chief  of 
police  had  given  a  reception.  Whence  shall  I 
obtain  tfie  Brusli  arid  colors  to  depict  this 
varied  gathering,  and  this  magnificent  feast? 
Take  your  watch,  open  it,  and  observe  what  is 
going  on  there.  A  fearful  confusion,  is  it  not  ? 
Now,  imagine  almost  the  same,  if  not  a  greater, 
number  of  wheels  standing  in  the  chief  of 
police’s  court-yard.  How  many  britchkas  and 
wagons  were  there  !  One  was  wide  behind  and 
narrow  in  front;  another  narrow  behind  and  wide 
in  front.  One  was  a  britchka  and  wagon  com¬ 
bined  ;  another  neither  a  britchka  nor  a  wagon. 
One  resembled  a  huge  hayrick,  or  a  fat  mer¬ 
chant’s  wife  ;  another  a  dilapidated  Jew,  or  a 
skeleton  not  quite  freed  from  the  skin.  One 
was  a  perfect  pipe  with  long  stem  in  profile  ; 
another,  resembling  nothing  whatever,  sug¬ 
gested  some  strange,  utterly  formless,  and  ex¬ 
ceedingly  fantastic,  being.  In  the  midst  of 
this  chaos  of  wheels  and  carriage-boxes,  rose 


178  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

the  semblances  of  coaches,  with  windows  like 
those  of  a  room,  crossed  with  broad  frames. 
The  coachmen,  in  gray  Cossack  coats,  svitkas, 
and  white  hare  coats,  with  sheepskin  hats  and 
caps  of  various  patterns,  and  pipes  in  their 
hands,  drove  the  unharnessed  horses  through 
the  yard.  What  a  reception  the  chief  of  police 
gave  !  Permit  me  to  run  through  the  list  of 
those  who  were  there  :  Taras  Tarasovitch,  Evpl 
Akinfovitch,  Evtikhiy  Evtikhievitch,  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch,  —  not  that  Ivan  I vanovitch,  but  another,  — 
Gabba  Gavrilonovitch,  our  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  Elev- 
feriy  Elevferievitch,  Makar  Nazarevitch,  Thoma 
Grigorovitch  ...  I  can  do  no  more  :  my  powers 
fail  me,  my  hand  ceases  to  write.  And  how 
many  ladies  were  there  !  dark  and  fair  and 
short,  fat  like  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  and  some  so 
thin  that  it  seemed  as  though  each  one  might 
hide  herself  in  the  scabbard  of  the  chief’s 
sword.  What  head-dresses  !  what  costumes  ! 
—  red,  yellow,  coffee-color,  green,  blue,  new, 
turned,  made  over, — dresses,  ribbons,  reticules. 
Farewell,  poor  eyes  !  you  will  never  be  good 
for  any  thing  any  more  after  this  spectacle. 
And  how  long  the  table  was  drawn  cut !  and 


II O W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 79 

how  all  talked  !  and  what  a  humming  they 
made  !  What  is  a  mill  with  its  driving-wheel, 
stones,  beams,  hammers,  wheels,  in  comparison 
with  this  ?  I  cannot  tell  you  exactly  what  they 
talked  about,  but  presumably  of  many  agree¬ 
able  and  useful  things,  such  as  the  weather, 
dogs,  wheat,  caps,  and  dice.  At  length  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  —  not  that  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  but  the 
other,  who  had  but  one  eye  —  said,  “  It  strikes 
me  as  strange  that  my  right  eye  [one-eyed  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  always  spoke  sarcastically  about 
himself]  does  not  see  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  Mr.1 
Dovgotchkhun.” 

“  He  would  not  come,”  said  the  chief  of 
police. 

“  Why  not  ?  ” 

“  It’s  two  years  now,  glory  to  God !  since 
they  quarrelled ;  that  is,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  :  and  where  one  goes,  the 
other  will  not  go.” 

“You  don’t  say  so!”  Thereupon  one-eyed 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  raised  his  eye,  and  clasped  his 
hands.  “Well,  if  people  with  good  eyes  can¬ 
not  live  in  peace,  how  am  I  to  live  amicably, 


1  Gospodin. 


180  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

with  my  bad  eye  ?  ”  At  these  words,  all  laughed 
at  the  tops  of  their  voices.  All  loved  one-eyed 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  because  he  cracked  jokes  quite 
in  the  style  of  the  present  one.  A  tall,  thin 
man  in  a  frieze  coat,  with  a  plaster  on  his  nose, 
who  up  to  this  time  had  sat  in  the  corner,  and 
never  once  altered  the  expression  of  his  face, 
even  when  a  fly  lighted  on  his  nose,  —  this 
gentleman  rose  from  his  seat,  and  approached 
nearer  to  the  crowd  which  surrounded  one-eyed 
Ivan  Ivanovitch.  ‘‘Listen,”  said  one-eyed  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  when  he  perceived  that  quite  a 
throng  had  collected  about  him ;  “  see  here : 
instead  of  gazing  at  my  bad  eye,  suppose  we 
make  peace  between  our  friends.  Ivan  Ivano¬ 
vitch  is  talking  with  the  women  and  girls ;  .  .  . 
let  us  go  quietly  for  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  and 
bring  them  together.” 

Ivan  Ivanovitch’s  proposal  was  unanimously 
agreed  to  ;  and  it  was  decided  to  send  at  once 
to  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s  house,  and  beg  him,  at 
any  rate,  to  come  to  the  chief  of  police’s  for 
dinner.  But  the  difficult  question  as  to  who 
was  to  be  intrusted  with  this  weighty  commis¬ 
sion  rendered  all  thoughtful.  They  debated 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 8 1 


long  as  to  who  was  the  most  fitted  for,  and 
expert  in,  diplomatic  matters.  At  length  it 
was  unanimously  agreed  to  depute  Anton  Pro- 
kofievitch  Golopuzo  for  this  business. 

But  it  is  necessary,  first  of  all,  to  make  the 
reader  somewhat  acquainted  with  this  notewor¬ 
thy  person.  Anton  Prokofievitch  was  a  truly 
virtuous  man,  in  the  fullest  meaning  of  the  term. 
If  any  one  in  Mirgorod  gives  him  a  neckerchief 
or  underclothes,  he  returns  thanks  :  if  any  one 
gives  him  a  fillip  on  the  nose, — he  returns 
thanks  then  also.  If  he  was  asked,  “  Why, 
Anton  Prokofievitch,  have  you  a  light  brown 
coat  with  blue  sleeves  ?  ”  he  generally  re¬ 
plied,  “Ah,  you  haven’t  one  like  it!  Wait:  it 
will  wear  off,  and  it  will  be  alike  all  over.” 
And,  in  point  of  fact,  the  blue  cloth,  from  the 
effects  of  the  sun,  began  to  turn  cinnamon- 
color,  and  had  now  become  of  the  same  tint 
as  the  rest  of  the  coat.  But  the  strange  part 
of  it  was,  that  Anton  Prokofievitch  had  a  habit 
of  wearing  woollen  clothing  in  summer,  and 
nankeen  in  winter.  Anton  Prokofievitch  has  no 
house  of  his  own.  He  used  to  have  one  at  the 
extremity  of  the  town  ;  but  he  sold  it,  and  with 


1 82  I/O IV  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

the  purchase-money  bought  a  troika  of  brown 
horses,  and  a  little  britchka  in  which  he  drove 
about  to  stay  with  the  squires.  But  as  the 
horses  made  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  and  money 
was  required  for  oats,  Anton  Prokofievitch 
swapped  them  off  for  a  violin  and  a  house-maid, 
with  twenty-five  paper  rubles  to  boot.  After¬ 
wards  Anton  Prokofievitch  sold  the  violin,  and 
swapped  the  girl  for  a  morocco  and  gold  tobac¬ 
co-pouch  ;  and  now  he  has  such  a  tobacco-pouch 
as  no  one  else  has.  As  a  result  of  this  luxury, 
he  can  no  longer  go  about  among  the  country- 
houses,  but  must  remain  in  the  city,  and  pass 
the  night  at  different  houses,  especially  of 
those  gentlemen  who  take  pleasure  in  tapping 
him  on  the  nose.  Anton  Prokofievitch  is  very 
fond  of  good  eating,  and  plays  well  at  durak 
and  melnik.1  Obeying  orders  always  was  his 
forte  ;  so,  taking  his  hat  and  cane,  he  set  out 
at  once  on  his  way. 

But,  as  he  walked  along,  he  began  to  ponder 
in  what  manner  he  should  contrive  to  induce 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  to  come  to  the  assembly. 
The  rather  unbending  character  of  the  latter, 


1  Card  games  :  literally,  “  fool  ”  and  “miller.” 


HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 83 

who  was  otherwise  a  worthy  man,  rendered  his 
undertaking  almost  hopeless.  Yes,  and  how,  in 
fact,  was  he  to  persuade  him  to  come,  when  even 
rising  from  his  bed  cost  him  so  great  an  effort  ? 
But  supposing  that  he  does  rise,  how  can  he 
get  him  there,  where,  as  he  doubtless  knows, 
his  irreconcilable  enemy  already  is  ?  The  more 
Anton  Prokofievitch  reflected,  the  more  difficul¬ 
ties  he  perceived.  The  day  was  sultry,  the  sun 
beat  down,  the  perspiration  poured  from  him  in 
streams.  Anton  Prokofievitch  was  a  tolerably 
sharp  man  in  many  respects  (though  they  did 
tap  him  on  the  nose).  In  swapping,  how¬ 
ever,  he  was  not  fortunate.  He  knew  very 
well  when  to  play  the  fool,  and  sometimes 
contrived  to  turn  things  to  his  own  profit,  amid 
circumstances  and  surroundings  from  which  a 
wise  man  could  rarely  escape  without  loss. 

His  ingenious  mind  had  contrived  a  means 
of  persuading  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ;  and  he  was 
proceeding  bravely  to  face  every  thing,  when  an 
unexpected  occurrence  somewhat  disturbed  his 
equanimity.  There  is  no  harm,  at  this  point, 
in  admitting  to  the  reader,  that,  among  other 
things,  Anton  Prokofievitch  was  the  owner  of 


184  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

a  pair  of  trousers  of  such  singular  properties, 
that,  when  he  put  them  on,  the  dogs  always 
bit  his  calves.  Unfortunately,  on  this  day  he 
had  donned  that  particular  pair  of  trousers  ;  and 
so  he  had  hardly  resigned  himself  to  meditation 
when  a  fearful  barking  on  all  sides  saluted  his 
ears.  Anton  Prokofievitch  raised  such  a  yell 
(no  one  could  scream  louder  than  he),  that  not 
only  did  the  well-known  woman  and  the  inhabit¬ 
ant  of  the  endless  surtout  rush  out  to  meet 
him,  but  even  the  small  boys  from  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch’s  yard  strewed  themselves  over  him  ;  and 
although  the  dogs  succeeded  in  tasting  only  one 
of  his  calves,  yet  this  sensibly  diminished  his 
courage,  and  he  entered  the  veranda  with  a 
certain  amount  of  timidity. 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 85 


VII.  AND  LAST. 

“Ah!  how  do  you  do?  Why  do  you  irritate 
the  dogs  ?  ”  said  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  on  perceiv¬ 
ing  Anton  Prokofievitch ;  for  no  one  spoke 
otherwise  than  jestingly  with  Anton  Prokofie¬ 
vitch. 

“  Hang  them  !  who’s  been  irritating  them  ?  ” 
retorted  Anton  Prokofievitch. 

“  You  lie  !  ” 

“  By  Heavens,  no  ! — You  are  invited  to  din¬ 
ner  by  Peter  Feodorovitch.” 

“Hm!” 

“  He  invited  you  more  pressingly  than  I  can 
tell  you.  4  Why,’  says  he,  ‘does  Ivan  Nikiforo¬ 
vitch  shun  me  like  an  enemy  ?  He  never 
comes  round  to  have  a  chat,  or  make  a  call.’  ” 

Ivan  Nikiforovitch  stroked  his  beard. 

“‘If,’  says  he,  ‘Ivan  Nikiforovitch  does  not 
come  now,  I  shall  not  know  what  to  think  : 
surely,  he  must  have  some  design  against  me. 
Pray,  Anton  Prokofievitch,  persuade  Ivan  Niki- 


1 86  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

forovitch  !  ’  Come,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  let  us 
go !  a  very  choice  company  is  already  assem¬ 
bled  there/’ 

Ivan  Nikiforovitch  began  to  regard  a  cock, 
which  was  perched  on  the  roof,  and  crowing 
with  all  its  might. 

“  If  you  only  knew,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,”  pur¬ 
sued  the  zealous  ambassador,  “what  fresh  stur¬ 
geon  and  caviare  Peter  Feodorovitch  has  had 
sent  to  him  !  ”  Whereupon  Ivan  Nikiforovitch 
turned  his  head,  and  began  to  listen  attentively. 
This  encouraged  the  messenger.  “  Come 
quick  :  Thoma  Grigorovitch  is  there  too.  Why 
don’t  you  come  ?  ”  he  added,  seeing  that  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch  still  lay  in  the  same  position. 
“Why,  shall  we  go,  or  not?” 

“  I  won’t !  ” 

This  “/  won't ”  startled  Anton  Prokofie- 
vitch  :  he  had  fancied  that  his  alluring  repre¬ 
sentations  had  quite  moved  this  very  worthy 
man;  but  instead,  he  heard  that  decisive  “/ 
won  t. 

“Why  won’t  you?”  he  asked,  almost  with 
vexation,  which  he  very  rarely  exhibited,  even 
when  they  put  burning  paper  on  his  head,  a 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 87 

trick  which  the  judge  and  the  chief  of  police 
were  particularly  fond  of  indulging  in. 

Ivan  Nikiforovitch  took  a  pinch  of  snuff. 

“As  you  like,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch.  I  do  not 
know  what  detains  you.” 

“Why  won’t  I  go?”  said  Ivan  Nikiforovitch 
at  length  :  “  that  brigand  will  be  there  !  ”  This 
was  his  ordinary  way  of  alluding  to  Ivan  Ivan- 
ovitch.  “Just  God!  and  is  it  long”  .  .  . 

“  He  will  not  be  there,  he  will  not  be  there! 
May  the  lightning  kill  me  on  the  spot!”  re¬ 
turned  Anton  Prokofievitch,  who  was  ready  to 
perjure  himself  ten  times  in  an  hour.  “Come 
along,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch!” 

“Yes,  you  lie,  Anton  Prokofievitch!  he  is 
there !  ” 

“By  Heavens,  by  Heavens,  he’s  not !  May  I 
never  stir  from  this  place  if  he’s  there!  Now, 
just  think  for  yourself,  what  object  have  I  in 
lying  ?  May  my  hands  and  feet  wither !  .  .  . 
Why,  don’t  you  believe  me  now  ?  May  I 
perish  right  here  in  your  presence !  Don’t 
you  believe  me  yet  ?  ” 

Ivan  Nikiforovitch  was  entirely  re-assured  by 
these  asseverations,  and  ordered  his  valet,  in 


1 88  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

the  boundless  surtout,  to  fetch  his  trousers  and 
nankeen  casaquin. 

I  suppose  that  to  describe  how  Ivan  Nikifor- 
ovitch  put  on  his  trousers,  how  they  wound  his 
neckerchief  about  his  neck,  and  finally  dragged 
on  his  casaquin,  which  burst  under  the  left 
sleeve,  would  be  quite  superfluous.  Suffice  it 
to  say,  that  during  all  that  time  he  preserved  a 
becoming  calmness  of  demeanor,  and  answered 
not  a  word  to  Anton  Prokofievitch’s  proposition 
to  swap  something  for  his  Turkish  tobacco- 
pouch. 

f 

Meanwhile  the  assembly  awaited  with  impa¬ 
tience  the  decisive  moment  when  Ivan  Nikifor- 
ovitch  should  make  his  appearance,  and  at 
length  comply  with  the  general  desire,  that 
these  worthy  people  should  be  reconciled  to 
each  other.  Many  were  almost  convinced  that 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  would  not  come.  Even  the 
chief  of  police  offered  to  bet  with  one-eyed 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  that  he  would  not  come ; 
and  he  only  desisted  because  one-eyed  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  demanded  that  he  should  wager 
his  shot  foot  against  his  own  bad  eye,  at 
which  the  chief  of  police  was  greatly  of- 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 89 

fended,  and  the  company  enjoyed  a  quiet 
laugh.  No  one  had  yet  sat  down  to  the 
table,  although  it  was  long  past  two  o’clock, 
an  hour  before  which  in  Mirgorod,  even  on 
ceremonious  occasions,  every  one  had  already 
long  dined. 

No  sooner  did  Anton  Prokofievitch  show  him¬ 
self  in  the  doorway,  than  he  was  instantly  sur¬ 
rounded  by  all.  Anton  Prokofievitch,  in  answer 
to  all  inquiries,  shouted  one  all-decisive  word, 
“  He  will  not  come!”  No  sooner  had  he 
uttered  this,  than  a  hailstorm  of  reproaches, 
scoldings,  and,  possibly,  even  fillips,  prepared  to 
descend  upon  his  head  for  the  ill  success  of  his 
mission,  when  all  at  once  the  door  opened, 
and —  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  entered. 

If  Satan  himself  or  a  corpse  had  appeared, 
it  would  not  have  caused  such  consternation 
throughout  the  company  as  Ivan  Nikiforovitch’s 
unexpected  arrival  created.  But  Anton  Proko¬ 
fievitch  only  went  off  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  and 
held  his  sides  with  delight  at  having  played 
such  a  joke  upon  the  company. 

At  all  events,  it  was  almost  past  the  belief  of 
all  that  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  could,  in  so  brief  a 


190  BOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


space  of  time,  have  attired  himself  like  a  re¬ 
spectable  gentleman.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  was  not 
there  at  the  moment :  he  had  stepped  out 
somewhere.  Recovering  from  their  amaze¬ 
ment,  the  public  took  an  interest  in  Ivan  Niki- 

21 

»  forovitch’s  health,  and  expressed  their  pleasure 
at  his  increase  in  breadth.  Ivan  Nikiforovitch 

|  kissed  every  one,  and  said,  “Very  much 
obliged !  ” 

Meantime  the  fragrance  of  the  beet-soup  was 
wafted  through  the  apartment,  and  tickled  the 
nostrils  of  the  hungry  guests  very  agreeably. 
All  rushed  headlong  to  the  table.  The  line  of 
ladies,  loquacious  and  silent,  thin  and  thick, 
swept  on,  and  the  long  table  glittered  with  all 
the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I  will  not  describe 
the  courses :  I  will  make  ~no^ mention  ofTlie 
curd  dumplings  with  sour  cream,  nor  ot  theT dish  ' 
of  haslets  that  was  served  with  the  soup,  nor  of 
the  turkey  with  plums  and  raisins,  nor  of  the 
dish  which  greatly  resembled  in  appearance  a 
boot  soaked  in  kvas,  nor  of  the  sauce,  which  is 
the  swan’s  song  of  the  old-fashioned  cook,  nor 
of  that  other  sauce  which  was  brought  in  all 
enveloped  in  the  flames  of  wine,  which  amused 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  I9I 


as  well  as  frightened  the  ladies  extremely.  I 
will  say  nothing  of  these  dishes,  because  I  like 
better  to  eat  them  than  to  spend  many  words 
in  discussing  them. 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  was  exceedingly  pleased 
with  the  fish  prepared  with  horseradish.  He 
devoted  himself  particularly  to  this  useful  and 
nourishing  preparation.  Picking  out  all  the 
fine  bones  from  the  fish,  he  laid  them  on  his 
plate ;  and  happening  to  glance  across  the  table  if 
.  .  .  Heavenly  Creator!  but  this  was  strange!  I 
Opposite  him  sat  Ivan  Nikiforovitch.  * 

At  the  very  same  instant  Ivan  Nikiforovitch 
glanced  up  also  .  .  .  No  ...  I  can  do  no  more 
.  .  .  Give  me  a  fresh  pen  !  My  pen  is  flabby, 
dead,  .  .  .  with  a  fine  point  for  this  picture  ! 
Their  faces  seemed  to  turn  to  stone,  still  keep¬ 
ing  their  defiant  expression.  Each  beheld  a 
long  familiar  face,  to  which  it  seemed  the  most 
natural  of  things  to  step  up  as  to  an  unex¬ 
pected  friend,  involuntarily,  and  offer  a  snuff¬ 
box,  with  the  words,  “  Do  me  the  favor/’  or 
“  Dare  I  beg  you  to  do  me  the  favor  ?  ”  In¬ 
stead  of  this,  that  face  was  terrible  as  a  fore¬ 
runner  of  evil.  The  perspiration  poured  in 


ig2  I/O IV  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED . 

streams  from  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Ivan  Niki- 
forovitch. 

All  the  guests  at  table  grew  dumb  with  at¬ 
tention,  and  never  took  their  eyes  from  the 
former  friends.  The  ladies,  who  had  been  busy 
up  to  that  time  with  a  sufficiently  interesting 
discussion  as  to  the  preparation  of  capons,  sud¬ 
denly  cut  their  conversation  short.  All  was 
silence.  It  was  a  picture  worthy  the  brush  of 
a  great  artist. 

At  length  Ivan  Ivanovitch  pulled  out  his 
handkerchief,  and  began  to  blow  his  nose ;  but 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  glanced  about,  and  his  eye 
rested  on  the  open  door.  The  chief  of  police 
at  once  perceived  this  movement,  and  ordered 
the  door  to  be  strongly  fastened.  Then  both 
of  the  friends  began  to  eat,  and  never  once 
glanced  at  each  other  again. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  done,  both  of  the 
former  friends  rose  from  their  seats,  and  began 
to  look  for  their  hats,  with  a  view  to  departure. 
Then  the  chief  beckoned  ;  and  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
—  not  that  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  but  the  other,  the 
one  with  the  one  eye  —  stood  behind  Ivan  Niki¬ 
forovitch,  and  the  chief  stepped  behind  Ivan 


I/O IV  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 93 

Ivanovitch,  and  both  began  to  drag  them  back¬ 
wards,  in  order  to  bring  them  together,  and  not 
release  them  until  they  had  shaken  hands  with 
each  other.  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  the  one-eyed  Ivan, 
pushed  Ivan  Nikiforovitch,  though  rather  crook¬ 
edly,  yet  with  tolerable  success,  towards  the 
spot  where  stood  Ivan  Ivanovitch ;  but  the  chief 
of  police  directed  his  course  too  much  to  one 
side,  because  he  could  not  steer  himself  with 
his  refractory  leg,  which  obeyed  no  orders  what¬ 
ever  on  this  occasion,  and,  as  if  with  malice 
aforethought,  swung  itself  uncommonly  far,  and 
in  quite  the  contrary  direction  (which  possibly 
resulted  from  the  fact  that  there  had  been  an 
unusual  amount  of  fruit-wine  after  dinner),  so 
that  Ivan  Ivanovitch  fell  over  a  lady  in  a  red 
gown,  who  had  thrust  herself  into  the  very 
centre,  out  of  curiosity.  Such  an  omen  fore¬ 
boded  nothing  good.  Nevertheless,  the  judge, 
in  order  to  set  the  matter  to  rights,  took  the 
chief  of  police’s  place,  and,  sweeping  all  the 
snuff  from  his  upper  lip  with  his  nose,  pushed 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  in  the  opposite  direction.  In 
Mirgorod  this  is  the  usual  manner  of  effecting 
a  reconciliation :  it  somewhat  resembles  a  game 


194  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

of  ball.  As  soon  as  the  judge  pushed  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  with  the  one  eye 
exerted  all  his  strength,  and  pushed  Ivan  Niki- 
forovitch,  from  whom  the  perspiration  streamed 
like  rain-water  from  the  roofs.  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  friends  resisted  to  the  best  of  their 
ability,  nevertheless  they  were  brought  together, 
for  the  two  active  movers  received  re-enforce¬ 
ments  from  the  ranks  of  the  guests. 

Then  they  were  closely  surrounded  on  all 
sides,  not  to  be  released  until  they  had  decided 
to  give  each  other  their  hands.  “  God  be  with 
you,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  and  Ivan  Ivanovitch  ! 
declare  upon  your  honor  now,  what  you  quar¬ 
relled  about  ;  trifles,  wasn’t  it  ?  aren’t  you 
ashamed  of  yourselves  before  people  and  before 
God  ?  ” 

“I  do  not  know,”  said  Ivan  Nikiforovitch, 
panting  with  fatigue  (it  is  to  be  observed  that 
he  was  not  at  all  disinclined  to  a  reconciliation), 
“  I  do  not  know  what  I  did  to  Ivan  Ivanovitch  ; 
but  why  did  he  destroy  my  coop,  and  plot 
against  my  life  ?  ” 

“  I  am  innocent  of  any  evil  designs!”  said 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  never  looking  at  Ivan  Niki- 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 95 

forovitch.  “  I  swear  before  God  and  before 
you,  honorable  noblemen,  I  did  nothing  to 
my  enemy !  Why  does  he  calumniate  me, 
and  injure  my  rank  and  family  ?  ” 

“What  injury  have  I  done  you,  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch  ?  ”  said  Ivan  Nikiforovitch.  One  moment 
more  of  explanation,  and  the  long  enmity  was 
on  the  point  of  being  extinguished.  Ivan  Niki¬ 
forovitch  was  already  feeling  in  his  pocket  for 
his  snuff-box,  and  was  about  to  say,  “  Do  me 
the  favor.” 

“Is  it  no  injury,”  answered  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
without  raising  his  eyes,  “  when  you,  my  dear 
sir,  insulted  my  honor  and  my  family  with  a 
word  which  it  is  improper  to  repeat  here  ?  ” 

“  Permit  me  to  observe,  in  a  friendly  man¬ 
ner,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  [here  Ivan  Nikiforovitch 
touched  Ivan  Ivanovitch’s  button  with  his 
finger,  which  clearly  indicated  the  disposition 
of  his  mind],  that  you  took  offence,  the  deuce 
only  knows  at  what,  because  I  called  you  a 
goose.”  .  .  . 

It  came  over  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake  in  uttering  that  word  ;  but  it  was 
too  late  :  the  word  was  out.  Every  thing  went 


196  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED, 


to  the  deuce.  If,  on  the  utterance  of  this  word 
without  witnesses,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  lost  control 
of  himself,  and  flew  into  such  a  passion  as  God 
preserve  us  from  beholding  any  man  in,  what 
was  to  be  expected  now  ?  I  put  it  to  you, 
dear  readers,  what  was  to  be  expected  now, 
when  the  fatal  word  was  uttered  in  an  assem¬ 
blage  of  persons  among  whom  were  ladies,  in 
whose  presence  Ivan  Ivanovitch  liked  to  be 
particularly  polite  ?  If  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  had 
set  to  work  in  any  other  manner,  if  he  had  only 
said  bird  and  not  goose ,  it  might  still  have  been 
arranged  ;  but  ...  all  was  at  an  end. 

He  cast  one  glance  upon  Ivan  Nikiforovitch, 
and  such  a  glance !  If  that  glance  had  pos¬ 
sessed  active  power,  then  it  would  have  turned 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  into  dust.  The  guests  un¬ 
derstood  the  glance,  and  hastened  to  separate 

1 

them.  And  this  m£n,  the  very  model  of  gentle¬ 
ness,  jvho  never  let  a  single  poor  woman  go 
wjikout  interrogating  her,  rushed  out  in  a 
fearful  rage.  Such  violent  storms  do  passions 
produce ! 

For  a  whole  month  nothing  was  heard  of 
Ivan  Ivanovitch.  He  shut  himself  up  at  home. 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED.  1 97 

His  ancestral  chest  was  opened;  from  the  chest 
was  taken  —  what?  silver  rubles,  his  grand¬ 
father’s  old  silver  rubles !  And  these  rubles 
passed  into  the  ink-stained  hands  of  legal  ad¬ 
visers.  The  case  was  sent  up  to  the  higher 
court ;  and  when  Ivan  Ivanovitch  received  the 
joyful  news  that  it  would  be  decided  on  the  mor¬ 
row,  then  only  did  he  look  out  upon  the  world, 
and  resolve  to  emerge  from  his  house.  Alas  ! 
from  that  time  forth,  the  council  gave  notice 
day  by  day,  that  the  case  would  be  finished 
on  the  morrow,  for  the  space  of  ten  years. 

Five  years  ago,  I  passed  through  the  town 
of  Mirgorod.  I  came  at  a  bad  time.  It  was 
autumn,  with  its  damp,  melancholy  weather, 
mud  and  mists.  An  unnatural  verdure,  the 
result  of  tiresome  and  incessant  rains,  covered 
with,  a  watery  network  the  fields  and  meadows, 
to  which  it  is  as  well  suited  as  youthful  pranks 
to  an  old  man,  or  roses  to  an  old  woman.  The 
weather  made  a  deep  impression  on  me  at  that 
time:  when  it  was  dull,  I  was  dull ;  but  in  spite 
of  that,  when  I  came  to  pass  through  Mirgorod, 
my  heart  beat  violently.  God,  what  reminis- 


198  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 

cences  !  I  had  not  beheld  Mirgorod  for  twenty 
years.  Here  then  had  lived,  in  touching  friend¬ 
ship,  two  inseparable  friends.  And  how  many 
prominent  people  had  died!  Judge  Demyan 
Demyanovitch  was  already  gone  :  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch  (with  the  one  eye)  had  long  ceased  to 
live.  I  entered  the  main  street.  All  about 
stood  poles  with  bundles  of  straw  on  top  :  some 
new  grading  was  being  done.  Several  izbas 
had  been  removed.  The  remnants  of  board 
and  wattled  fences  projected  sadly,  here  and 
there.  It  was  a  festival  day.  I  ordered  my  bas¬ 
ket  kibitka  to  stop  in  front  of  the  church,  and 
entered  softly  that  no  one  might  turn  round. 
To  tell  the  truth,  there  was  no  need  of  this:  the 
church  was  empty;  there  were  very  few  people; 
it  was  evident  that  even  the  most  pious  feared 
the  mud.  The  candles  seemed  strangely  un¬ 
pleasant  in  that  gloomy,  or,  better  still,  sickly, 
light.  The  dim  vestibule  was  melancholy  ;  the 
long  windows,  with  their  circular  panes,  were 
bedewed  with  tears  of  rain  ;  I  retired  into  the 
vestibule,  and  addressed  myself  to  a  respectable 
old  man,  with  grayish  hair  :  “  May  I  inquire  if 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  is  still  living  ?  ”  At  that 


HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  1 99 


moment  the  lamp  before  the  ikon  burned  up 
more  brightly,  and  the  light  fell  directly  upon 
the  face  of  my  companion.  What  was  my  sur¬ 
prise,  on  looking  more  closely,  to  behold  fea¬ 
tures  with  which  I  was  acquainted !  It  was 
Ivan  Nikiforovitch  himself !  But  how  he  had 
changed ! 

“  Are  you  well,  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ?  How 
old  you  have  grown  !  ” 

“Yes,  I  have  grown  old.  I  have  just  come 
from  Poltava  to-day,”  answered  Ivan  Nikiforo¬ 
vitch. 

“You  don’t  say  so!  you  have  been  to  Poltava 
in  this  bad  weather  ?  ” 

“  What  was  to  be  done  ?  that  lawsuit  ”... 

At  this  I  sighed  involuntarily. 

Ivan  Nikiforovitch  observed  my  sigh,  and 

said,  “  Do  not  be  troubled :  I  have  reliable 

information  that  the  case  will  be  decided  next 

week,  and  in  my  favor.” 

* - - 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  and  went  to  get 
some  news  of  Ivan  Ivanovitch. 

“  Ivan  Ivanovitch  is  here,”  some  one  said  to 
me,  “  in  the  choir.” 

Then  I  saw  a  gaunt  form.  Was  that  Ivan 


2C0  HOW  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED. 


Ivanovitch  ?  His  face  was  covered  with  wrin¬ 
kles,  his  hair  was  perfectly  white ;  but  the 
bekesha  was  the  same  as  ever.  After  the  first 
greetings  were  over,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  turning 
to  me  with  the  joyous  smile  which  always 
became  his  funnel-shaped  face,  said,  “Have 
you  been  informed  of  the  pleasant  news  ?  ” 

“What  news  ?”  I  inquired. 

“  My  case  is  to  be  decided  to-morrow  with¬ 


out  fail :  the  court  has  announced  it  de- 
j  cisively.” 

I  sighed  more  deeply  than  before,  and  made 
haste  to  take  my  leave  (for  I  was  bound  on  very 
important  business),  and  seated  myself  in  my 
kibitka. 

The  lean  nags  known  in  Mirgorod  as  “  cour¬ 
ier’s  horses,”  started,  producing  with  their  hoofs, 
which  were  buried  in  a  gray  mass  of  mud,  a 
sound  very  displeasing  to  the  ear.  The  rain 
poured  in  torrents  upon  the  Jew  seated  on  the 
box,  covered  with  a  rug.  The  dampness  pene¬ 
trated  through  and  through  me.  The  gloomy 
barrier  with  a  sentry-box,  in  which  an  old  sol¬ 
dier  was  repairing  his  gray  weapons,  passed 
slowly  by.  Again  the  same  fields,  in  some 


HO  W  THE  TWO  IVANS  QUARRELLED .  201 


places  black  where  they  had  been  dug  up,  in 
others  of  a  greenish  hue ;  wet  daws  and  crows  ; 
monotonous  rain ;  a  tearful  sky,  without  one 
gleam  of  light!  ...  It  is  dull  in  this  world, 
gentlemen  ! 


THE  PORTRAIT.1 


PART  I. 

Nowhere  did  so  many  people  pause  as  before 
the  little  picture-shop  in  the  Shtchukinui  Dvor. 
This  little  shop  offered,  in  fact,  the  most  varied 
collection  of  curiosities.  The  pictures  were 
principally  in  oil,  covered  with  dark-green  var¬ 
nish,  in  tinsel  frames  of  a  dull  yellow.  Winter 
scenes  with  white  trees ;  very  red  sunsets,  like 
raging  conflagrations  ;  a  Flemish  boor,  with 
pipe  and  crippled  hand,  more  like  a  turkey-cock 
in  cuffs  than  a  human  being,  —  these  were  the 
prevailing  subjects.  To  these  must  be  added  a 
few  engravings,  —  a  portrait  of  Khozreff-Mirza 
in  a  sheepskin  cap,  and  portraits  of  some  gen¬ 
erals  or  other  with  three-cornered  hats  and 
hooked  noses.  Moreover,  the  doors  of  such 

1  This  is  the  first  in  the  series  of  St.  Petersburg  stories. 


203 


204 


THE  PORTRAIT 


booths  are  usually  festooned  with  bundles  of 
publications,  printed  on  large  sheets  of  bark, 
which  bear  witness  to  the  native  talent  of  the 
Russian. 

On  one  was  the  Tzarevna  Miliktrisa  Kirbi- 
tievna;  on  another  the  city  of  Jerusalem,  over 
whose  houses  and  churches  spread  red  paint, 
embracing  in  its  sweep  a  part  of  the  ground, 
and  two  praying  Russian  muzhiks  in  their  shirt¬ 
sleeves.  There  are  usually  but  few  purchasers 
of  these  productions,  but  the  gazers  were  many. 
Some  truant  lackey  probably  yawned  before 
them,  holding  in  his  hand  the  dishes  containing 
dinner  from  the  cook-shop  for  his  master,  who 
would  doubtless  not  get  his  soup  very  hot.  Be¬ 
fore  them,  too,  would  probably  be  standing  a 
soldier  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  —  that  cavalier  of 
the  old-clothes’  mart,  with  two  penknives  for 
sale, — and  Okhtenka,  the  huckstress,  with  her 
basketful  of  shoes.  Each  expresses  his  admira¬ 
tion  in  his  own  fashion.  The  muzhiks  generally 
touch  them  with  their  fingers ;  the  cavaliers 
gaze  seriously  at  them  ;  serving-boys  and  ap¬ 
prentices  laugh,  and  tease  each  other  with  the 
colored  caricatures  ;  old  lackeys  in  frieze  man- 


THE  PORTRAIT 


205 


ties  look  at  them  merely  for  the  sake  of  yawning 
away  their  time  somewhere  ;  and  the  hucksters, 
young  Russian  women,  halt  by  instinct  to  hear 
what  people  are  gossiping  about,  and  to  see 
what  they  are  looking  at. 

At  the  time  when  our  story  opens,  the  young 
painter,  Tchartkoff,  paused  involuntarily  as  he 
passed  the  shop.  His  old  cloak  and  undandified 
attire  showed  him  to  be  a  man  who  was  devoted 
to  his  art  with  self-denying  zeal,  and  who  had 
no  time  to  trouble  himself  about  clothes,  which 
always  have  a  secret  attraction  for  young  men. 

He  paused  before  the  little  shop,  and  at  first 

\ 

enjoyed  an  inward  laugh  over  the  monstrosities 
of  pictures.  At  length  he  sank  unconsciously 
into  a  revery,  and  began  to  ponder  on  the  ques¬ 
tion,  What  sort  of  people  wanted  these  pro¬ 
ductions  ?  It  did  not  seem  remarkable  to  him 
that  the  Russian  people  should  gaze  with  rapture 
upon  Eruslanoff  Lazarevitch,  on  The  Glutton 
and  The  Carouser,  on  Thoma  and  Erema.  The 
delineations  of  those  subjects  were  sufficient 
and  very  easily  intelligible  to  the  masses.  But 
where  were  there  purchasers  for  those  streaky, 
dirty  oil-paintings  ?  Who  needed  those  Flemish 


20  6 


THE  PORTRAIT 


boors,  those  reel  and  blue  landscapes,  which  put 
forth  some  claims  to  a  higher  stage  of  art,  but 
which  expressed  all  the  depths  of  its  degrada¬ 
tion  ?  They  did  not  appear  in  the  least  like 
the  works  of  a  self-taught  child.  In  that  case, 
in  spite  of  the  intentional  caricature  of  the 
design,  a  sharp  distinction  would  have  mani¬ 
fested  itself.  But  here  were  visible  only  simple 
dulness,  weak,  faltering  incapacity,  which  stood, 
through  self-will,  in  the  ranks  of  art,  while  its 
true  place  was  among  the  lowest  trades,  —  an 
incapacity  which  was  true,  nevertheless,  to  its 
vocation,  and  dragged  its  trade  into  art.  The 
same  colors,  the  same  manner,  the  same  driving, 
practised  hand,  belonging  rather  to  a  manufac¬ 
tured  automaton  than  to  a  man  ! 

He  stood  long  before  the  dirty  pictures, 
thinking  not  at  all  of  them  at  length ;  but 
meanwhile  the  proprietor  of  the  stall,  a  little 
gray  man,  in  a  frieze  cloak,  with  a  beard  which 
had  not  been  shaved  since  Sunday,  had  been 
nudging  him  for  some  time,  bartering  and  set¬ 
tling  on  prices,  without  even  knowing  what 
pleased  him,  or  what  he  wanted.  “  Here,  I’ll 
take  a  silver  piece  for  these  peasants  and  this 


THE  PORTRAIT 


207 


little  landscape.  What  painting  !  it  fairly  puts 
your  eyes  out;  only  just  received  from  the 
factory ;  the  varnish  isn’t  dry  yet.  Or,  here  is 
a  winter  scene,  —  take  the  winter  scene  ;  fifteen 
rubles  ;  the  frame  alone  is  worth  it.  What  a 
winter  scene!”  Here  the  merchant  gave  a 
light  fillip  to  the  canvas,  as  if  to  demonstrate 
all  the  merits  of  the  winter  scene.  “  Pray  have 
them  done  up  and  sent  to  your  house.  Where 
do  you  live?  Here,  boy,  give  me  some 
string !  ” 

“  Hold,  brother,  not  so  fast !  ”  said  the  paint¬ 
er,  coming  to  himself,  and  perceiving  that  the 
brisk  dealer  was  beginning  in  earnest  to  do 
them  up.  He  was  rather  ashamed  not  to  take 
any  thing  after  standing  so  long  at  the  stall  ; 
and  he  said,  “  Here,  stop  !  I  will  see  if  there 
is  any  thing  I  want  here  ;  ”  and,  bending  over, 
he  began  to  pick  up  from  the  floor,  where  they 
were  thrown  in  a  heap,  worn,  dusty  old  paint¬ 
ings,  which  evidently  commanded  no  respect. 
There  were  old  family  portraits,  whose  descend¬ 
ants,  probably,  could  not  be  found  on  earth  ; 
totally  unknown  pictures,  with  torn  canvas ; 
frames  minus  their  gilding ;  in  a  word,  all  sorts 


208 


THE  PORTRAIT 


of  old  trash.  But  the  painter  began  his  search, 
thinking  to  himself,  “  Perhaps  I  may  find  some¬ 
thing.”  He  had  often  heard  stories  about 
pictures  of  the  great  masters  having  been  found 
among  the  rubbish  at  the  cheap  print-sellers’ 
shops. 

The  dealer,  perceiving  what  he  was  about, 
ceased  his  importunities,  and,  assuming  his 
usual  attitude  and  the  accompanying  expres¬ 
sion,  took  up  his  post  again  at  the  door,  hailing 
the  passers-by,  and  pointing  to  his  stall  with 
one  hand.  “  Hither,  friends,  here  are  pictures; 
enter,  enter;  just  received  from  the  makers!” 
He  shouted  his  fill,  and  generally  in  vain  :  he 
had  a  long  talk  with  a  rag-merchant  standing 
opposite,  also  at  the  door  of  his  stall ;  and 
finally,  recollecting  that  he  had  a  customer  in 
his  shop,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  public,  and 
went  inside.  “Well,  batiushka  [my  friend], 
have  you  chosen  any  thing  ?  ”  But  the  painter 
had  already  been  standing  for  some  time  im¬ 
movable  before  a  portrait  in  a  large,  originally 
magnificent,  frame,  but  upon  which  hardly  a 
trace  of  gilding  now  remained. 

It  represented  an  old  man,  with  a  thin, 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


209 


bronzed  face  and  high  cheek-bones  ;  it  seemed 
as  if  the  features  were  depicted  in  a  moment  of 
convulsive  agitation,  and  bespoke  an  un-northern 
power ;  the  burning  south  was  stamped  upon 
them.  He  was  muffled  in  a  voluminous  Asiatic 
costume.  Dusty  and  defaced  as  the  portrait 
was,  when  he  had  succeeded  in  removing  the 
dirt  from  the  face,  he  saw  traces  of  the  work 
of  a  great  artist.  The  portrait  appeared  to  be 
unfinished,  but  the  power  of  the  handling  was 
striking.  The  eyes  were  the  most  remarkable 
of  all :  it  seemed  as  though  the  full  power  of  the 
artist’s  brush  and  all  his  care  had  been  lavished 
upon  them.  They  fairly  looked,  gazed,  out  of 
the  portrait,  destroying  its  harmony  with  their 
strange  liveliness.  When  he  carried  the  portrait 
to  the  door,  the  eyes  glanced  even  more  pene- 
tratingly.  They  produced  nearly  the  same  im¬ 
pression  on  the  public.  A  woman  standing 
behind  him,  exclaimed,  “He  looks,  he  looks!” 
and  jumped  back.  He  experienced  an  unpleas¬ 
ant  feeling,  inexplicable  even  to  himself,  and 
put  the  portrait  on  the  floor. 

“How?  You  take  the  portrait?”  said  the 
dealer. 


210 


THE  PORTRAIT 


“  How  much  is  it  ?  ”  said  the  painter. 

“  Why  chaffer  over  it  ?  give  me  seventy-five 
kopeks.” 

“No.” 

“Well,  how  much  will  you  give?” 

“Twenty  kopeks,”  said  the  painter,  preparing 
to  go. 

“  What  a  price  !  Why,  you  couldn’t  buy  the 
frame  for  that !  Perhaps  you  will  decide  to 
purchase  to-morrow.  Sir,  sir,  turn  back  !  Add 
ten  kopeks.  Take  it,  take  it!  give  me  twenty 
kopeks.  To  tell  the  truth,  you  are  my  first  cus¬ 
tomer,  and  that’s  the  only  reason.”  Then  he 
made  a  gesture,  as  if  to  signify,  “  So  be  it ; 
let  the  picture  go  !  ” 

Thus  Tchartkoff  quite  unexpectedly  purchased 
the  old  portrait,  and  at  the  same  time  reflected, 
“Why  have  I  bought  it?  What  is  it  to  me  ?  ’’ 
But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  He  pulled 
the  twenty-kopek  piece  from  his  pocket,  gave  it 
to  the  merchant,  took  the  portrait  under  his 
arm,  and  carried  it  home.  On  the  way  thither, 
he  remembered  that  the  twenty-kopek  piece  he 
had  given  for  it  was  his  last.  His  thoughts  at 
once  grew  dark.  Vexation  and  careless  indif- 


THE  PORTRAIT 


21 1 


ference  took  possession  of  him  at  one  and  the 
same  moment.  “  Devil  take  it !  This  world  is 
disagreeable  enough  !  ”  he  said,  with  the  feel¬ 
ing  of  a  Russian  whose  affairs  are  going  wrong. 
And  almost  mechanically  he  went  on  at  a 
quickened  pace,  filled  with  indifference  to  every 
thing.  The  red  light  of  sunset  still  lingered  in 
half  the  sky  ;  the  houses  facing  that  way  still 
almost  gleamed  with  its  warm  light ;  and  mean¬ 
while  the  cold  blue  light  of  the  moon  grew 
brighter.  Light,  half-transparent  shadows  fell 
in  bands  upon  the  ground,  broken  by  the 
houses  and  the  feet  of  the  pedestrians.  The 
painter  began  by  degrees  to  glance  up  at  the 
sky,  flushed  with  a  thin,  transparent,  dubious 
light ;  and  nearly  at  the  same  moment  from  his 
mouth  fell  the  words,  “  What  a  delicate  tone  !  ” 
and  the  words,  “What  a  nuisance!  Deuce 
take  it !  ”  and,  re-adjusting  the  portrait,  which 
slipped  from  under  his  arm  incessantly,  he 
quickened  his  pace. 

Weary,  bathed  in  perspiration,  he  dragged 
himself  to  the  fifteenth  line,  on  Vasilievsky 
Ostroff.  With  difficulty  and  much  panting  he 
made  his  way  up  the  stairs  flooded  with  soap- 


212 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


suds,  and  adorned  with  the  tracks  of  dogs  and 
cats.  To  his  knock  on  the  door,  there  was  no 
answer :  there  was  no  one  at  home.  He  leaned 
against  the  window,  and  disposed  himself  to 
wait  patiently,  until  at  last  there  resounded 
behind  him  the  footsteps  of  a  boy  in  a  blue 
blouse — his  servant,  model,  color-grinder,  and 
scrubber  of  floors,  who  also  dirtied  them  with 
his  boots.  The  boy  was  called  Nikita,  and 
spent  all  his  time  in  the  streets  when  his  mas¬ 
ter  was  not  at  home.  Nikita  tried  for  a  long 
time  to  get  the  key  into  the  lock,  which  was 
quite  invisible,  by  reason  of  the  darkness. 

Finally  the  door  was  opened.  Tchartkoff  en¬ 
tered  his  ante-room,  which  was  intolerably  cold, 
as  painters’  rooms  always  are,  which  fact,  more¬ 
over,  they  do  not  notice.  Without  giving  Nikita 
his  coat,  he  went  into  his  studio,  a  large,  square, 
but  low  apartment,  with  frozen  windows,  and 
fitted  up  with  all  sorts  of  artistic  rubbish,  — 
bits  of  plaster  hands,  canvas  stretched  on 
frames,  sketches  begun  and  discarded,  and  dra¬ 
peries  thrown  over  chairs.  He  was  very  tired  : 
he  threw  off  his  cloak,  placed  the  portrait  ab¬ 
stractedly  between  two  small  canvases,  and 


THE  PORTRAIT 


213 


threw  himself  on  the  narrow  divan,  of  which  it 
was  impossible  to  say  that  it  was  covered  with 
leather,  because  a  row  of  brass  nails,  which  had 
formerly  fastened  it,  had  long  been  left  alone 
by  themselves,  and  the  leather  remained  above 
by  itself ;  so  that  Nikita  was  in  the  habit  of 
stuffing  dirty  stockings,  shirts,  and  all  the 

soiled  linen,  under  it.  Having  seated  himself, 
and  stretched  himself,  as  much  as  it  was 

possible  to  stretch,  on  the  narrow  divan,  he 
finally  called  for  a  light. 

“  There  are  no  candles,”  said  Nikita. 

“  How,  none  ?  ” 

“And  there  were  none  last  night,”  said 

Nikita.  The  artist  recollected  that,  in  fact, 
there  had  been  no  candles  the  previous  even¬ 
ing,  quieted  down,  and  became  silent.  He  let 
himself  be  undressed,  and  put  on  his  old, 

much-worn  dressing-gown. 

“There  has  been  a  gentleman  here,”  said 
Nikita. 

“  Well,  he  came  for  money,  I  know,”  said  the 
painter,  waving  his  hand. 

“Yes,  and  he  was  not  alone,”  said  Nikita. 

“Who  else?” 


214 


THE  rOR TRAIT. 


“I  don’t  know, — some  policeman  or  other.” 

“  But  why  a  policeman  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know  why  :  he  says  because  your 
rent  is  not  paid.” 

“  Well,  what  will  come  of  it  ?  ” 

“I  don’t  know  what  will  come  of  it  :  he  said, 
‘If  he  won’t  pay,  why,  let  him  leave  the  rooms.’ 
They  are  both  coming  again  to-morrow.” 

“Let  them  come,”  said  Tchartkoff,  with  sad 
indifference  ;  and  that  gloomy  mood  took  full 
possession  of  him. 

Young  Tchartkoff  was  an  artist  of  talent, 
which  promised  great  things  :  by  fits  and  starts 
his  work  gavei  evidence  of  observation,  thou  ght, 
and  a  strong  inclination  to  approach  nearer  to 
nature. 

“  Look  here,  my  friend,”  his  professor  said  to 
him  more  than  once,  “you  have  talent ;  it  will 
be  a  shame  if  you  waste  it :  but  you  are  impa¬ 
tient  ;  you  have  but  to  be  attracted  by  a  thing, 
to  fall  in  love  with  a  thing  —  you  are  all  en¬ 
grossed  with  it,  and  everything  else  is  rubbish, 
all  else  goes  for  nothing,  you  won’t  even  look 
at  it.  See  to  it  that  you  do  not  become  a  fash¬ 
ionable  artist  :  at  present  your  colors  begin  to 


THE  FOR  TEA  IT. 


215 


assert  themselves  too  loudly;  your  drawing  is 
not  strong;  at  times  it  is  quite  weak,  — no  lines 
are  to  be  seen  :  you  are  already  striving  after 
the  fashionable  light,  because  it  strikes  the  eye 
at  once.  .  .  .  See,  you  fall  into  the  English 
style  as  if  on  purpose.  Have  a  care !  the 
world  already  begins  to  attract  you  :  I  have 
already  seen  you  with  a  shiny  hat,  a  foppish 
neckerchief.  ...  It  is  seductive;  it  is  possible 
to  allow  one's  self  to  paint  fashionable  little 
pictures  and  portraits  for  money ;  but  talent 
is  ruined,  not  developed,  by  that  means.  Be 
patient;  think  out  every  piece  of  work;  discard 
your  foppishness ;  let  others  amass  money,  your 
own  will  not  fail  you." 

The  professor  was  partly  right.  Our  artist 
sometimes  wanted  to  carouse,  to  play  the  fop, 
in  a  word,  to  exhibit  his  youth  in  some  way  or 
other ;  but  he  could  control  himself  withal. 
At  times  he  could  forget  every  thing,  when 
he  had  once  taken  his  brush  in  hand,  and 
could  not  tear  himself  from  it  except  as  from  a 
delightful  dream.  His  taste  perceptibly  devel¬ 
oped.  He  did  not  as  yet  understand  all  the 
depths  of  Raphael,  but  he  was  attracted  by 


21 6 


THE  PORTRAIT 


Guido’s  broad  and  rapid  handling,  he  paused 
before  the  portraits  by  Titian,  he  delighted  in 
the  Flemish  masters.  The  dark  veil  enshroud¬ 
ing  the  ancient  pictures  had  not  yet  passed 
away  from  before  them  ;  but  he  already  saw 
something  in  them,  though  in  private  he  did 
not  agree  with  the  professor  that  the  old  mas¬ 
ters  are  irremediably  lost  to  us  :  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  nineteenth  century  had  improved 
upon  them  considerably,  that  the  delineation  of 
nature  had  become  clearer,  more  vivid,  nearer ; 
in  a  word,  he  thought  on  this  point  as  youth 
does  think,  having  already  accomplished  some¬ 
thing,  and  recognizing  it  with  internal  pride. 
It  sometimes  vexed  him  when  he  saw  how  a 
strange  artist,  French  or  German,  sometimes 
not  even  a  painter  by  profession,  but  only  a 
skilful  dauber,  produced,  by  the  celerity  of  his 
brush  and  the  vividness  of  his  coloring,  a  uni¬ 
versal  commotion,  and  amassed  in  a  twinkling 
a  funded  capital.  This  did  not  occur  to  him 
when,  fully  occupied  with  his  own  work,  he  for¬ 
got  food  and  drink  and  all  the  world  :  but  when 
dire  want  arrived,  when  he  had  no  money 
wherewith  to  buy  brushes  and  colors,  when  his 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


217 


implacable  landlord  came  ten  times  a  day  to 
demand  the  pay  for  his  rooms,  then  did  the 
luck  of  the  wealthy  artists  present  itself  to  his 
hungry  imagination ;  then  did  the  thought 
which  so  often  traverses  Russian  minds,  trav¬ 
erse  his,  —  to  give  up  altogether,  and  go  down 
hill,  and  utterly  to  the  bad.  And  now  he  was 
almost  in  this  frame  of  mind. 

“  Yes,  be  patient,  be  patient !  ”  he  exclaimed 
with  vexation ;  “  but  there  is  an  end  to  pa¬ 
tience  at  last.  Be  patient !  but  what  money 
am  I  to  dine  with  to-morrow  ?  No  one  will 
lend  me  any.  If  I  bring  myself  to  sell  all  my 
pictures  and  sketches,  they  would  give  me 
twenty  kopeks  for  the  whole  of  them.  They 
are  useful ;  I  feel  that  not  one  of  them  was 
undertaken  in  vain  ;  I  learned  something  from 
each  one.  Yes,  but  of  what  use?  studies,  trial- 
sketches —  and  all  will  be  studies,  trial-sketches 
—  and  there  will  be  no  end  to  them.  And  who 
will  buy,  knowing  me  not  even  by  name  ?  yes, 
and  who  wants  drawings  from  the  antique,  or 
the  life  class,  or  my  unfinished  love  of  a  Psyche, 
or  the  perspective  of  my  chamber,  or  the  por¬ 
trait  of  my  Nikita,  though  it  is  better,  to  tell 


218 


T1IE  PORTRAIT 


the  truth,  than  the  portraits  by  any  of  the  fash¬ 
ionable  artists  ?  In  fact,  what  does  it  mean  ? 
Why  do  I  worry,  and  toil  like  a  learner  over  the 
alphabet,  when  I  might  shine  as  brightly  as 
the  rest,  and  have  money,  too,  like  them  ?” 

Thus  speaking,  the  artist  suddenly  shuddered, 
and  turned  pale:  a  convulsively  distorted  face 
gazed  at  him,  peeping  forth  from  the  surround¬ 
ing  canvas  ;  two  terrible  eyes  were  fixed  straight 
upon  him,  as  if  preparing  to  devour  him  ;  on 
the  mouth  was  written  a  menacing  command  of 
silence.  Frightened,  he  tried  to  scream  and 
summon  Nikita,  who  had  already  succeeded  in 
setting  up  a  gigantic  snoring  in  his  ante-room  ; 
but  he  suddenly  paused  and  laughed  ;  the  sensa¬ 
tion  of  fear  subsided  in  a  moment ;  it  was  the 
portrait  he  had  bought,  and  which  he  had  quite 
forgotten.  The  light  of  the  moon  illuminating 
the  chamber,  fell  upon  it,  and  lent  it  a  strange 
likeness  to  life.  He  began  to  examine  and  wipe 
it  off.  He  moistened  a  sponge  with  water,  passed 
it  over  the  picture  several  times,  washed  off 
nearly  all  the  accumulated  and  incrusted  dust 
and  dirt,  hung  it  on  the  wall  before  him,  and 
wondered  yet  more  at  the  remarkable  workman- 


THE  PORTRAIT 


219 


ship  :  almost  the  whole  face  had  gained  new 
life,  and  the  eyes  gazed  at  him  so  that  he  shud¬ 
dered  at  last ;  and,  springing  back,  he  exclaimed 
in  a  voice  of  surprise,  “  It  looks,  it  looks,  with 
human  eyes!”  Then  suddenly  there  came  to  y 
his  mind  a  story  he  had  heard  long  before 
from  his  professor,  of  a  certain  portrait  by  the 
renowned  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  upon  which  the 
great  master  labored  several  years,  and  still 
held  it  incomplete,  and  which,  according  to 
Vasari,  was  nevertheless  deemed  by  all  the  most 
complete  and  finished  product  of  his  art.  The 
most  finished  thing  about  it  was  the  eyes,  which 
amazed  his  contemporaries  :  the  very  smallest, 
barely  visible  veins  in  them  were  not  omitted, 
but  committed  to  the  canvas.  But  here,  in 
the  portrait  now  before  him,  there  was  some¬ 
thing  singular.  This  was  no  longer  art :  it  even  n 
destroyed  the  harmony  of  the  portrait ;  they 
were  living,  human  eyes  !  It  seemed  as  though 
they  had  been  cut  from  a  living  man,  and 
inserted  there..  Here  was  none  of  that  high 
enjoyment  which  takes  possession  of  the  spirit 
at  the  sight  of  an  artist’s  production,  no  matter 
how  terrible  the  subject  he  may  have  chosen  : 


220 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


there  was  a  painful,  fatiguing  sensation  here. 
“  What  is  it  ?  ”  the  artist  asked  himself  involun¬ 
tarily  ;  “but  this  is  nature,  nevertheless,  living 
nature.  Whence  this  strangely  unpleasant 
feeling  ?  Is  a  slavish,  literal  copy  of  nature  a 
crime  which  proclaims  itself  in  a  shrill,  dis¬ 
cordant  shriek?  If  you  take  an  unsympathetic 
subject,  one  void  of  feeling,  having  no  sympathy 
with  it  yourself,  will  it  infallibly  stand  forth,  in 
its  fearful  realism,  unillumined  by  any  intan¬ 
gible,  hidden  light,  to  the  thoughts  of  all?  will 
it  stand  forth  in  such  realism  as  is  displayed, 
when,  wishing  to  understand  the  secret  of  a 
very  handsome  man,  you  arm  yourself  with  an 
anatomical  knife,  cut  to  his  heart,  and  behold 
a  hideous  man  ?  Why  does  simple,  lowly  Na¬ 
ture  reveal  herself  in  the  works  of  one  artist  in 
such  a  light  that  you  experience  no  sensation 
of  degradation,  —  on  the  contrary,  you  seem  to 
enjoy  it  for  some  reason,  and  things  seem  to 
flow  more  quietly  and  smoothly  around  you 
after  it?  And  why  does  this  same  Nature 
seem,  in  the  hands  of  another  artist,  low  and 
vile?  Yet  he  was  true  to  Nature  too.  But, 
no,  there  is  nothing  illuminating  in  her.  It 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


221 


makes  no  difference  what  aspect  Nature  wears  : 
however  magnificent  she  may  be,  there  is  al¬ 
ways  something  wanting,  unless  the  sun  is  in 
the  sky.” 

Again  he  approached  the  portrait,  in  order  to 
view  those  wondrous  eyes,  and  perceived  with 
terror  that  they  were  gazing  at  him.  This  was 
no  copy  from  Nature  :  it  was  life,  the  strange 
life  which  might  have  lighted  up  the  face  of 
a  dead  man,  who  had  risen  from  the  grave. 
Whether  it  was  the  effect  of  the  moonlight, 
which  brought  with  it  fantastic  thoughts,  and 
transformed  things  into  strange  likenesses, 
opposed  to  those  of  matter-of-fact  day,  or  from 
some  other  cause,  it  suddenly  became  fright¬ 
ful  to  him,  he  knew  not  why,  to  sit  alone  in  the 
room.  He  retreated  softly  from  the  portrait, 
turned  aside,  and  tried  not  to  look  at  it  ;  but  his 
eye  involuntarily,  of  its  own  accord,  glanced 
sideways,  and  watched  it.  Finally,  he  became 
afraid  to  walk  about  the  room  :  it  seemed  as 
though  some  one  were  on  the  point  of  stepping 
up  behind  him  ;  and  every  time  he  turned,  he 
glanced  timidly  back.  He  had  never  been  cow¬ 
ardly  ;  but  his  imagination  and  nerves  were  sen- 


222 


THE  PORTRAIT 


sitive,  and  that  evening  he  could  not  explain 
his  involuntary  fear.  He  seated  himself  in  the 
corner,  but  even  then  it  seemed  to  him  that 
some  one  was  peeping  over  his  shoulder  into 
his  face.  Even  Nikita’s  snores,  resounding 
from  the  ante-room,  did  not  chase  away  his  fear. 
At  length  he  rose  from  his  seat,  timidly,  with¬ 
out  raising  his  eyes,  went  behind  his  screen, 
and  lay  down  on  his  bed.  Through  the  cracks 
of  the  screen  he  saw  his  room  illuminated  by 
the  moon,  and  saw  the  portrait  hanging  stiffly 
on  the  wall.  The  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  in 
a  still  more  terrible  and  significant  manner,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  they  would  not  look  at  any  thing 
but  him.  Overpowered  with  a  feeling  of  oppres¬ 
sion,  he  decided  to  rise  from  his  bed,  seized  a 
sheet,  and,  approaching  the  portrait,  covered  it 
up  completely. 

Having  done  this,  he  lay  down  more  quietly 
on  the  bed,  and  began  to  meditate  upon  the 
poverty  and  pitiful  lot  of  the  artist,  of  the  thorny 
path  before  him  in  the  world  ;  —  but,  mean¬ 
while,  his  eye  glanced  involuntarily  through 
the  joint  of  the  screen,  at  the  portrait  muffled 
in  the  sheet.  The  light  of  the  moon  height- 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


223 


ened  the  whiteness  of  the  sheet,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  as  though  those  terrible  eyes  shone 
through  the  cloth.  With  terror  he  fixed  his 
eyes  more  steadfastly  on  it,  as  if  wishing  to 
convince  himself  that  it  was  all  nonsense.  But 
at  length,  in  fact,  ...  he  sees,  sees  clearly  : 
there  is  no  longer  a  sheet ;  .  .  .  the  portrait  is 
quite  uncovered,  and  gazes  past  every  thing 
around  it,  straight  at  him  ;  gazes  fairly  into  his 
heart.  .  .  .  His  heart  grows  cold.  And  he 
sees  :  the  old  man  has  moved,  and  suddenly, 
supporting  himself  on  the  frame  with  both 
arms,  has  raised  himself  by  his  hands,  and, 
putting  forth  both  feet,  has  leaped  out  of  the 
frame.  .  .  .  Through  the  crack  of  the  screen, 
the  empty  frame  alone  was  now  visible.  Foot¬ 
steps  resounded  in  the  room,  and  they  ap¬ 
proached  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  screen.  The 
poor  artist’s  heart  began  to  beat  harder.  He 
expected  every  moment,  his  breath  failing  for 
fear,  that  the  old  man  would  look  round  the 
screen  at  him.  And  lo !  he  did  look  behind 
the  screen,  with  the  very  same  bronzed  face, 
and  with  his  big  eyes  roving  about.  Tchartkoff 
tried  to  scream,  and  felt  that  his  voice  was 


224 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


gone  ;  he  tried  to  move,  to  make  a  gesture  ;  his 
limbs  refused  their  office.  With  open  mouth, 
and  failing  breath,  he  gazed  at  the  terrible,  tall 
phantom,  in  some  sort  of  a  voluminous  Asiatic 
robe,  and  waited  for  what  it  would  do.  The 
old  man  sat  down  almost  on  his  very  feet,  and 
then  pulled  out  something  from  among  the 
folds  of  his  wide  garment :  it  was  a  purse. 
The  old  man  untied  it,  seized  it  by  both  ends, 
and  shook  it.  Heavy  rolls  of  money,  like  long 
pillars,  fell  out  with  a  dull  thud  upon  the  floor : 
each  was  wrapped  in  blue  paper,  and  on  each 
was  marked,  “1,000  ducats The  old  man 
extended  his  long,  bony  hand  from  his  wide 
sleeves,  and  began  to  undo  the  rolls.  The  gold 
glittered.  Great  as  was  the  artist’s  unreason¬ 
ing  fear,  and  feeling  of  oppression,  he  bent  all 
his  attention  upon  the  gold,  gazing  motionless, 
as  it  made  its  appearance  in  the  bony  hands, 
gleamed,  rang  lightly  or  dully,  and  was  wrapped 
up  again.  Then  he  perceived  one  packet  which 
had  rolled  farther  than  the  rest,  to  the  ve'ry  leg 
,  of  his  bedstead,  near  his  pillow.  He  grasped 
it  almost  convulsively,  and  glanced  in  fear_at 
the  old  man  to  see  if  he  perceived  it.  But  the 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


225 


old  man  appeared  very  much  occupied :  he 
collected  all  his  rolls,  replaced  them  in  the 
purse,  and  went  outside  the  screen  without 
looking  at  him.  Tchartkoff’s  heart  beat  wildly 
as  he  heard  the  rustle  of  the  retreating  foot¬ 
steps  sounding  through  the  room.  He  clasped 
his  roll  more  closely  in  his  hand,  quivering  in 
every  limb  ;  and  suddenly  he  heard  the  footsteps 
approaching  the  screen  again.  .  .  .  Apparently 
the  old  man  had  recollected  that  one  roll  was 
missing.  And  lo  !  again  he  looked  round  the 
screen  at  him.  The  artist  in  despair  grasped 
the  roll  with  all  his  strength,  exerted  all  his 
power  to  make  a  movement,  shrieked  —  and  X 
awoke. 

He  was  bathed  in  a  cold  perspiration  ;  his 
heart  beat  as  hard  as  it  was  possible  for  it  to 
beat ;  his  chest  was  oppressed,  as  though  his 
last  breath  was  about  to  fly  from  it.  “  Was  it 
a  dream  ?  ”  he  said,  seizing  his  head  with  both 
hands.  But  the  terrible  life-likeness  of  the 
apparition  did  not  resemble  a  dream.  As  he' 
woke,  he  saw  the  old  man  step  into  the  frame  : 
the  skirts  of  the  voluminous  garment  even 
fluttered,  and  his  hand  felt  plainly  that  a 


226 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


moment  before  it  had  held  something  heavy. 
The  moonlight  illumined  the  room,  bringing 
out  from  the  dark  corners,  here  a  canvas, 
there  the  model  of  a  hand  ;  a  drapery  thrown 
over  a  chair  j  trousers  and  uncleaned  boots. 
Then  he  perceived  that  he  was  not  lying  in  his 
bed,  but  standing  upright,  directly  before__the 
portrait.  How  he  had  come  there,  he  could 
not  in  the  least  comprehend.  Still  more  sur¬ 
prised  was  he,  to  find  the  portrait  quite  un¬ 
covered,  and  there  actually  was  no  sheet  ov  er 
it.  Motionless  with  terror,  he  gazed  at  it,  and 
perceived  that  the  living,  human  eyes  were 
fastened  upon  him.  A  cold  perspiration 
started  out  upon  his  face.  He  wanted  to  move 
away,  but  felt  that  his  feet  had  in  some  way 
become  rooted  to  the  earth.  And  he  saw  — 
that  this  was  not  a  dream.  The  old  man  s 
features  moved,  and  his  lips  began  to  project 
towards  him,  as  though  he  wanted  to  suck  him 
in.  With  a  yell  of  despair  he  jumped  back 

—  and  awoke. 

t  “  Was  it  a  dream  ?  ”  With  his  heart  beating 
to  bursting,  he  felt  about  him  with  both  hands. 
Yes,  he  was  lying  in  bed,  and  in  precisely  the 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


227 


position  in  which  he  had  fallen  asleep.  Before 
him  stood  the  screen.  The  moonlight  flooded 
the  apartment.  Through  the  crack  of  the 
screen,  the  portrait  was  visible,  covered  with 
the  sheet,  as  it  should  be,  just  as  he  had 
covered  it.  And  so  this,  too,  was  a  dream  ? 
But  his  clinched  fist  still  felt  as  though  some¬ 
thing  had  been  in  it.  The  beating  of  his  heart 
was  violent,  almost  terrible ;  the  weight  upon 
his  breast,  intolerable.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
the  crack,  and  stared  steadfastly  at  the  sheet. 
And  lo  !  he  sees  plainly  how  the  sheet  begins 
to  open,  as  though  hands  were  pushing  from 
underneath,  and  trying  to  throw  it  off.  “  Lord 
God,  what  is  it !  ”  he  shrieked,  crossing  himself 
in  despair  —  and  awoke. 

And  was  this  also  a  dream  ?  He  sprang 
from  his  bed,  frantic,  half  mad,  and  could  not 
comprehend  what  had  happened  to  him  :  was 
it  the  oppression  of  a  nightmare,  or  domovoi 
(kobold),  the  raving  of  fever,  or  a  living  appari¬ 
tion  ?  Striving  to  calm,  as  far  as  possible,  his 
mental  tumult,  and  wildly  rushing  blood,  which 
beat  with  straining  pulses  in  every  vein,  ho 
went  to  the  window,  and  opened  the  pane. 


228 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


The  cool,  fragrant  breeze  revived  him.  The 
moonlight  lay  on  all  the  roofs  and  white  walls 
of  the  houses,  though  small  clouds  passed  fre¬ 
quently  across  the  sky.  All  was  still  :  from 
time  to  time  there  struck  the  ear,  the  distant 
rumble  of  adrozhky,  whose  izvosethik  was  sleep¬ 
ing  in  some  obscure  alley,  lulled  to  slumber 
by  his  lazy  nag,  as  he  awaited  a  belated  pas¬ 
senger.  He  put  his  head  out  of  the  pane,  and 
gazed  long.  Already  the  signs  of  approaching 
dawn  were  spreading  in  the  sky.  At  last  he 
felt  drowsy,  clapped  to  the  pane,  stepped  back, 
lay  down  in  bed,  and  quickly  fell,  like  one 
exhausted,  into  a  deep  sleep. 

He  awoke  late,  and  with  the  disagreeable 
feeling  of  a  man  who  has  been  choked  with 
coal-gas  :  his  head  ached  painfully.  The  room 
was  dim  :  an  unpleasant  humidity  pervaded  the 
air,  and  penetrated  the  cracks  of  his  windows, 
stopped  with  pictures  and  grounded  canvas. 
Dissatisfied  and  depressed  as  a  wet  cock,  he 
seated  himself  on  his  dilapidated  divan,  not 
knowing  what  to  do,  what  to  undertake,  and  at 
length  remembered  all  his  dream.  As  he  re¬ 
called  it,  the  dream  presented  itself  to  his  mind 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


229 


as  so  oppressively  real  that  he  even  began  to 
wonder  whether  it  were  a  dream,  and  simple 
delirium,  whether  there  were  not  something 
else  here,  whether  it  were  not  an  apparition. 
Removing  the  sheet,  he  looked  at  the  terrible 
portrait  by  the  light  of  day.  The  eyes  were 
really  striking  in  their  extraordinary  liveliness, 
but  he  found  nothing  particularly  terrible  in 
them  ;  yet  an  indescribably  unpleasant  feeling 
lingered  in  his  mind.  Nevertheless,  he  could 
not  quite  convince  himself  that  it  was  a  dream. 
It  struck  him  that  there  must  have  been  some 
terrible  fragment  of  reality  in  the  midst  of  the 
dream.  It  seemed  as  though  there  were  some¬ 
thing  in  the  old  man’s  very  glance  and  expres¬ 
sion  which  said  that  he  had  been  with  him  that 
night :  his  hand  felt  the  weight  which  had  so 
recently  lain  in  it  as  if  some  one  had  but  just 
snatched  it  from  him.  It  seemed  to  him,  that, 
if  he  had  only  grasped  the  roll  more  firmly,  it 
would  have  remained  in  his  hand,  even  after 
his  awakening. 

“  My  God,  if  I  had  only  a  portion  of  that 
money !  ”  he  said,  breathing  heavily ;  and  in  his 
fancy,  all  those  rolls,  with  their  fascinating  in- 


230 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


scription,  i(  1 ,000  due  cits ,  began  to  pour  out  of 
the  purse.  The  rolls  opened,  the  gold  glit¬ 
tered,  was  wrapped  up  again  ;  and  he  sat 
motionless,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  empty 
air,  as  if  he  were  incapable  of  tearing  himself 
from  such  a  sight,  like  a  child  who  sits  before 
a  plate  of  sweets,  and  beholds,  with  watering 
mouth,  other  people  devouring  them. 

At  last  there  came  a  knock  on  the  door, 
which  recalled  him  unpleasantly  to  himself. 
The  landlord  entered  with  the  constable  of  the 
district,  whose  presence,  as  is  well  known,  is 
even  more  disagreeable  to  poor  people  than  is 
the  presence  of  a  beggar  to  the  rich.  The 
landlord  of  the  little  house  in  which  Tchartkoff 
lived  resembled  the  other  individuals  who  own 
houses  anywhere  in  the  fifteenth  line  of 
Vasilievsky  Ostroff,  on  the  Petersburg  side,  or 
in  the  distant  regions  of  Kolomna,  —  individu¬ 
als  of  which  there  are  many  in  Russia,  and 
whose  character  is  as  difficult  to  define  as  the 
color  of  a  threadbare  surtout.  In  his  youth  he 
had  been  a  captain  and  a  braggart,  had  sen  ed 
in  the  civil  service,  was  a  master  in  the  ait  of 
flogging,  was  skilful  and  foppish  and  stupid , 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


231 


but  in  his  old  age  he  combined  all  these  various 
qualities  into  a  kind  of  dim  indefiniteness. 
He  was  a  widower,  already  on  the  retired  list, 
no  longer  boasted,  nor  was  dandified,  no  longer 
quarrelled,  and  loved  only  to  drink  tea  and  talk 
all  sorts  of  nonsense  over  it ;  he  walked  about 
his  room,  and  arranged  the  ends  ot  the  tallow 
candles  ;  punctually  at  the  end  of  each  month 
he  called  upon  his  lodgers  for  his  money ;  went 
out  into  the  street,  with  the  key  in  his  hand,  to 
look  at  the  roof  of  his  house,  and  sometimes 
chased  the  dvornik  (porter)  out  of  his  kennel, 
where  he  had  hidden  himself  to  sleep ;  in  a 
word,  he  was  a  man  on  the  retired  list,  who, 
after  the  turmoils  and  wildness  of  his  life,  had 
only  his  old-fashioned  habits  left. 

“Please  to  see  for  yourself,  Varukh  Kuz- 
mitch,,,  said  the  landlord,  turning  to  the  offi¬ 
cer,  and  throwing  out  his  hands,  “  this  man 
does  not  pay  his  rent,  he  does  not  pay.” 

“  How  can  I  when  I  have  no  money  ?  Wait, 
and  I  will  pay.” 

“  I  can’t  wait,  my  good  fellow,”  said  the 
landlord  angrily,  making  a  gesture  with  the 
key  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  “  Lieutenant- 


232 


THE  PORTRAIT 


Colonel  Potogonkin  has  lived  with  me  seven 
years,  seven  years  already ;  Anna  Petrovna 
Buchmisteroff  hires  the  carriage  -  house  and 
stable,  except  two  stalls,  and  has  three  house¬ 
hold  servants,  .  .  .  that  is  the  kind  of  lodgers 
I  have.  I  will  say  to  you  frankly,  that  this  is 
not  an  establishment  where  people  do  not  pay 
their  rent.  Pay  your  money  at  once,  if  you 
please,  or  else  clear  out.” 

“  Yes,  if  you  hired  the  rooms,  please  to  pay,” 
said  the  constable,  with  a  slight  shake  of  the 
head,  as  he  laid  his  finger  on  one  of  the  but¬ 
tons  of  his  uniform. 

“Well,  what  am  I  to  pay  with?  that’s  the 
question.  I  haven’t  a  groschen  just  at  pres¬ 
ent.” 

“  In  that  case,  satisfy  the  claims  of  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  with  the  fruits  of  your  profession,” 
said  the  officer  :  “  perhaps  he  will  consent  to 
take  pictures.” 

“No,  thank  you,  my  good  fellow,  no  pictures. 
Pictures  of  holy  subjects,  such  as  one  could 
hang  upon  the  walls,  would  be  well  enough  ;  or 
some  general  with  a  star,  or  Prince  Kutusoff’s 
portrait :  but  this  fellow  has  painted  that 


THE  PORTRAIT 


233 


muzhik,  that  muzhik  in  his  blouse,  his  servant 
who  grinds  his  colors  !  The  idea  of  painting 
his  portrait,  the  hog !  I’ll  thrash  him  well  :  he 
took  all  the  nails  out  of  my  bolts,  the  scoundrel ! 
Just  see  what  subjects  !  here  he  has  drawn  this 
room.  It  would  have  been  well  enough  if  he 
had  taken  a  clean,  well-furnished  room  ;  but  he 
has  gone  and  drawn  this  one,  with  all  the  dirt 
and  rubbish  which  he  has  collected.  Just  see 
how  he  has  defaced  my  room  !  Look  for  your¬ 
self.  Yes,  and  my  lodgers  have  been  with 
me  seven  years,  the  lieutenant-colonel,  Anna 
Petrovna  Buchmisteroff.  .  .  .  No,  I  tell  you, 
there  is  no  worse  lodger  than  a  painter :  he 
lives  like  a  pig  ;  simply  —  God  have  mercy  !  ” 

And  the  poor  artist  had  to  listen  patiently  to 
all  this.  Meanwhile  the  officer  had  occupied 
himself  with  examining  the  pictures  and  stud¬ 
ies,  and  showed  that  his  mind  was  more  ad¬ 
vanced  than  the  landlord’s,  and  that  he  was  not 
insensible  to  artistic  impressions. 

“  Heh !  ”  said  he,  tapping  one  canvas,  on 
which  was  depicted  a  naked  woman,  “  this  sub¬ 
ject  is  —  lively.  But  why  so  much  black  under 
her  nose  ?  did  she  take  snuff  ?  ” 


234 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


“Shadow,”  answered  Tchartkoff  gruffly,  with¬ 
out  looking  at  him. 

“  But  it  might  have  been  put  in  some  other 
place  :  it  is  too  conspicuous  under  the  nose,” 
observed  the  officer.  “  And  whose  likeness  is 
this  ?”  he  continued,  approaching  the  old  man’s 
portrait.  “  It’s  too  terrible.  Was  he  really  so 
dreadful  ?  Ah  !  why,  he  actually  looks  !  What 
a  thunder-cloud!  From  whom  did  you  paint 
it  ?  ” 

“Ah!  it  is  from  a”  —  said  Tchartkoff,  and 
did  not  finish  his  sentence :  he  heard  a  crack. 
It  seems  that  the  officer  had  pressed  too  hard 
on  the  frame  of  the  portrait,  thanks  to  the  axe¬ 
like  build  of  his  constable’s  hands :  the  small 
boards  on  the  side  caved  in,  one  fell  on  the 
floor,  and  with  it  fell,  with  a  heavy  clash,  a 
roll  in  blue  paper.  The  inscription  caught 
Tchartkoff’s  eye,  —  “  1,000  ducats .”  Like  a 
madman,  he  sprang  to  pick  it  up,  grasped  the 
roll,  and  gripped  it  convulsively  in  his  hand, 
which  fell  down  with  the  weight. 

“Wasn’t  there  a  sound  of  money?”  inquired 
the  officer,  hearing  the  noise  of  something  fall¬ 
ing  on  the  floor,  and  not  catching  sight  of  it,  by 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


235 


reason  of  the  rapidity  of  the  movement  with 
which  Tchartkoff  had  hastened  to  pick  it  up. 

“What  business  is  it  of  yours  what  is  in  my 

^  ft 

room  ? 

“It’s  my  business  because  you  ought  to  pay 
your  rent  to  the  landlord  at  once,  because  you 
have  money,  and  won’t  pay,  —  that’s  why  it’s 
my  business.” 

“Well,  I  will  pay  him  to-day.” 

“  Well,  and  why  wouldn’t  you  pay  him  before, 
instead  of  making  trouble  for  your  landlord,  and 
bothering  the  police  to  boot  ?  ” 

“  Because  I  did  not  want  to  touch  this  money. 
I  will  pay  him  all  this  evening,  and  leave  the 
rooms  to-morrow,  because  I  will  not  stay  with 
such  a  landlord.” 

“  Well,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  he  will  pay  you,” 
said  the  constable,  turning  to  the  landlord. 
“  But  in  case  you  are  not  satisfied  in  every  re¬ 
spect  this  evening,  then  you  must  excuse  me, 
Mr.  Painter.”  So  saying,  he  put  on  his  three- 
cornered  hat,  and  went  into  the  ante-room,  fol¬ 
lowed  by  the  landlord  hanging  his  head,  and 
apparently  engaged  in  meditation. 

“  Thank  God,  Satan  has  carried  them  off !  ” 


236 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


said  Tchartkoff,  when  he  heard  the  door  of  the 
ante-room  shut.  He  looked  out  into  the  ante¬ 
room,  sent  Nikita  off  on  some  errand,  in  order 
to  be  quite  alone,  fastened  the  door  behind  him, 
and,  returning  to  his  room,  began  with  wildly 
beating  heart  to  undo  the  roll. 

In  it  were  ducats,  all  new,  and  bright  as  fire. 
Almost  beside  himself,  he  sat  down  beside  the 
pile  of  gold,  still  asking  himself,  “Is  not  this 
all  a  dream  ?”  There  were  just  a  thousand  in 
the  roll :  the  exterior  was  precisely  like  what  he 
had  seen  in  his  dream.  He  turned  them  over, 
and  looked  at  them  for  some  minutes,  without 
coming  to  his  senses.  His  imagination  con¬ 
jured  up  all  the  tales  of  hoards,  cabinets  with 
secret  drawers,  left  by  ancestors  for  their  spend- 
thrift  descendants,  with  firm  belief  in  the  ex¬ 
travagance  of  their  life.  He  pondered  thus  : 
“  Did  not  some  grandfather,  in  the  present  in¬ 
stance,  leave  a  gift  for  his  grandchild,  shut  up 
in  the  frame  of  the  family  portrait?”  Filled 
with  romantic  fancies,  he  began  to  think  :  had 
not  this  some  secret  connection  with  his  fate? 
was  not  the  existence  of  the  portrait  bound  up 
with  his  own  existence,  and  was  not  his  acquisi- 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


tion  of  it  a  kind  of  predestination  ?  He  begS| 
to  examine  the  frame  with  curiosity.  On  one 
side  a  cavity  was  hollowed  out,  concealed  so 
skilfully  and  neatly  by  a  little  board,  that,  if  the 
massive  hand  of  the  constable  had  not  effected 
a  breach,  the  ducats  might  have  remained  hidden 

0 

to  the  end  of  time.  On  examining  the  portrait, 
he  marvelled  again  at  the  exquisite  workman¬ 
ship,  the  extraordinary  treatment  of  the  eyes; 
they  no  longer  appeared  terrible  to  him  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  each  time,  a  disagreeable  feeling 
involuntarily  lingered  in  his  mind.  “No,”  he 
said  to  himself,  “  no  matter  whose  grandfather 
you  were,  I’ll  put  a  glass  over  you,  and  get 
you  a  gilt  frame.”  Then  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  golden  pile  before  him,  and  his  heart 
beat  faster  at  the  touch.  “  What  shall  I  do 
with  them  ?  ”  he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  on  them. 
“Now  I  am  independent  for  at  least  three 
years  :  I  can  shut  myself  up  in  my  room  and 
work.  I  have  money  for  colors  now ;  for  din¬ 
ner,  tea,  my  food  and  lodging  —  no  one  will 
annoy  and  disturb  me  now.  I  will  buy  myself 
a  first-class  manikin,  I  will  order  a  plaster 
torso,  I  will  model  feet,  I  will  have  a  Venus,  I 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

W\W  buy  engravings  of  the  best  pictures.  And 
if  I  work  three  years  to  satisfy  myself,  without 
haste,  not  for  sale,  I  shall  surpass  them  all,  and 
I  may  become  a  distinguished  artist.” 

Thus  he  spoke  in  solitude,  with  his  good 
judgment  prompting  ;  but  louder  and  more  dis¬ 
tinct  sounded  another  voice  within  him.  And 
as  he  glanced  once  more  at  the  gold,  it  was  not 
thus  that  his  twenty-two  years  and  fiery  youth 
spoke.  Now  every  thing  was  within  his  power 
on  which  he  had  hitherto  gazed  with  envious 
eyes,  which  he  had  viewed  from  afar  with  long¬ 
ing.  How  his  heart  beat  when  he  thought  of 
it!  To  wear  a  fashionable  coat,  to  feast  after 
long  abstinence,  to  hire  handsome  apartments, 
to  go,  on  the  instant,  to  the  theatre,  to  the  con- 
fectioner’s,  to  .  .  .  other  places ;  and  seizing 
his  money,  he  was  in  the  street  in  a  moment. 

First  of  all  he  went  to  the  tailor,  clothed 
himself  anew  from  head  to  foot,  and  began  to 
look  at  himself  incessantly,  like  a  child.  He 
bought  perfumes,  pomade^  ;  hired  the  first  ele¬ 
gant  suite  of  apartments  with  mirrors  and  plate- 
glass  windows  which  he  came  across  in  the 
Nevsky  Prospect,  without  haggling  about  the 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


239 


price ;  bought,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
in  a  shop,  a  costly  opera-glass  ;  bought,  also  on 
impulse,  a  quantity  of  neckties  of  every  descrip¬ 
tion,  many  more  than  he  needed ;  had  his  hair 
curled  at  the  hairdresser’s ;  rode  through  the 
city  twice  without  any  object  whatever;  ate  an 
immense  amount  of  candy  at  the  confectioner  s  ; 
and  went  to  the  French  Restaurant,  of  which 
he  had  heard  rumors  as  indistinct  as  though 
they  had  concerned  the  Empire  of  China. 
There  he  dined,  with  his  arms  akimbo,  casting 
proud  glances  at  the  other  visitors,  and  continu¬ 
ally  arranging  his  curls  in  the  glass.  There  he 
drank  a  bottle  of  champagne,  which  had  been 
known  to  him  hitherto  only  by  hearsay.  The 
wine  rather  affected  his  head  ;  and  he  emerged 
into  the  street,  lively,  pugnacious,  ready  to  raise 
the  Devil,  according  to  the  Russian  expression. 
He  strutted  along  the  sidewalk,  levelling  his 
opera-glass  at  everybody.  On  the  bridge  he 
caught  sight  of  his  former  professor,  and 
slipped  past  him  neatly,  as  if  he  did  not  see 
him,  so  that  the  astounded  professor  stood 
stock-still  on  the  bridge  for  a  long  time,  with  a 
face  suggestive  of  an  interrogation-point. 


240 


THE  PORTRAIT 


All  his  things,  every  thing  he  owned,  —  easels, 
canvas,  pictures,  —  were  transported  that  same 
evening  to  his  elegant  quarters.  He  arranged 
the  best  of  them  in  conspicuous  places,  threw 
the  worst  into  a  corner,  and  promenaded  up  and 
down  the  handsome  rooms,  glancing  constantly 
in  the  mirrors.  An  unconquerable  desire  to 
seize  fame  by  the  tail,  and  show  himself  to  the 
world  at  once,  had  arisen  in  his  mind.  He  al¬ 
ready  heard  the  shouts,  “  Tchartkoff !  Tchart- 
koff !  Have  you  seen  Tchartkoff’s  picture  ? 
How  rapidly  Tchartkoff  paints !  How  much 
talent  Tchartkoff  has  !  ”  He  paced  the  room 
in  a  state  of  rapture,  unconscious  whither  he 
went.  The  next  day  he  took  ten  ducats,  and 
went  to  the  publisher  of  a  popular  journal,  ask¬ 
ing  his  charitable  assistance.  He  was  joyfully 
received  by  the  journalist,  who  called  him  on 
the  spot,  “ Most  respected  sir,”  squeezed  both 
his  hands,  made  minute  inquiries  as  to  his 
name,  birthplace,  residence  ;  and  the  next  day 
there  appeared  in  the  journal,  below  a  notice 
of  some  newly  invented  tallow  candles,  an 
article  with  the  following  heading :  — 


I 


THE  PORTRAIT.  24 1 

\AJl  £^^0  [yfrJjJ/ 

“  tchartkoff’s  immense  talent. 

“We  hasten  to  delight  the  cultivated  inhabit¬ 
ants  of  the  capital  with  a  discovery  which  we 
may  call  splendid  in  every  respect.  All  are 
agreed  that  there  are  among  us  many  very 
handsome  physiognomies  and  faces,  but  hith¬ 
erto  there  has  been  no  means  of  committing 
them  to  the  wonder-working  canvas  for  trans¬ 
mission  to  posterity.  This  want  has  now  been 
supplied  :  an  artist  has  been  found  who  unites 
in  himself  all  desirable  qualities.  The  beauty 
can  now  feel  assured  that  she  will  be  depicted 
with  all  the  grace  of  her  spiritual  charms,  airy, 
fascinating,  wondrous,  butterfly-like,  flitting 
among  the  flowers  of  spring.  The  stately 
father  of  a  family  can  see  himself  surrounded 
by  his  family.  Merchant,  warrior,  citizen, 
statesman  —  hasten  one  and  all,  come  from 
your  promenade,  your  expedition  to  your 
friend,  your  cousin,  to  the  glittering  bazaar ; 
hasten,  wherever  you  may  be.  The  artist’s 
magnificent  establishment  [Nevsky  Prospect, 
such  and  such  a  number]  is  all  hung  with  por¬ 
traits  from  his  brush,  worthy  of  Van  Dyck  or 


242 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


Titian.  One  knows  not  which  to  admire  most, 
their  truth  and  likeness  to  the  originals,  or  the 
wonderful  brilliancy  and  freshness  of  the  col¬ 
oring.  Hail  to  you,  artist !  you  have  drawn 
a  lucky  number  in  the  lottery.  Long  live 
Andrei  Petrovitch !  ”  (The  journalist  evi¬ 
dently  liked  familiarity.)  “  Glorify  yourself 
and  us.  We  know  how  to  prize  you.  Univer¬ 
sal  popularity,  and  with  it  money,  will  be  your 
meed,  though  some  of  our  brother  journalists 
may  rise  against  you.” 

The  artist  read  this  article  with  secret  satis¬ 
faction  :  his  face  beamed.  He  was  mentioned 
in  print ;  it  was  a  novelty  to  him  :  he  read  the 
lines  over  several  times.  The  comparison  with 
Van  Dyck  and  Titian  flattered  him  extremely. 
The  phrase,  “  Long  live  Andrei  Petrovitch,”  also 
pleased  him  greatly  :  being  called  by  his  Chris¬ 
tian  name  and  patronymic  in  print  was  an 
honor  hitherto  utterly  unknown  to  him.  He 
began  to  pace  the  chamber  briskly,  to  tumble 
his  hair ;  now  he  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair,  then 
sprang  up,  and  seated  himself  on  the  sofa,  plan¬ 
ning  each  moment  how  he  would  receive  visit¬ 
ors,  male  and  female ;  he  went  to  his  canvas, 


THE  TOE  TEA  IT. 


243 


and  made  a  rapid  sweep  of  the  brush,  endeaw 
oring  to  impart  a  graceful  movement  to  his 
hand. 

The  next  day,  the  little  bell  at  his  door  rang  : 
he  hastened  to  open.  A  lady  entered,  followed 
by  a  lackey  in  a  furred  livery-coat ;  and  with 
the  lady  entered  an  eighteen-year-old  girl,  her 
daughter. 

“  You  are  Monsieur  Tchartkoff  ?  ” 

The  artist  bowed. 

“  A  great  deal  is  being  written  about  you  : 
your  portraits,  it  is  said,  are  the  height  of  per¬ 
fection.”  So  saying,  the  lady  raised  her  glass 
to  her  eyes,  and  glanced  rapidly  over  the  walls, 
upon  which  nothing  was  hanging.  “But  where 
are  your  portraits  ?  ” 

“They  have  been  taken  away,”  replied  the 
artist,  somewhat  confusedly:  “I  have  but  just 
moved  into  these  apartments ;  so  they  are  still 
on  the  road,  .  .  .  they  have  not  arrived.” 

“You  have  been  in  Italy?”  asked  the  lady, 
levelling  her  glass  at  him,  as  she  found  nothing 
else  to  point  it  at. 

“  No,  I  have  not  been  there  ;  but  I  wish  to  go, 
.  .  .  and  I  have  deferred  it  for  a  while.  .  .  . 


244 


TIIE  PO  RITA  IT. 


Here  is  an  arm-chair,  Madame :  you  are  fa¬ 
tigued  ?  ”  .  .  . 

“  Thank  you  :  I  have  been  sitting  a  long  time 
in  the  carriage.  Ah,  at  last  I  behold  your 
work  !  ”  said  the  lady,  running  to  the  opposite 
wall,  and  bringing  her  glass  to  bear  upon  his 
studies,  programmes,  perspectives,  and  portraits 
which  were  standing  on  the  floor.  “C’est  char- 
mant,  Lise  !  Lise,  venez-ici.  Rooms  in  the  style 
of  Teniers.  Do  you  see  ?  Disorder,  disorder,  a 
table  with  a  bust  upon  it,  a  hand,  a  palette ; 
here  is  dust  .  .  .  see  how  the  dust  is  painted  ! 
C’est  charmant.  And  here  on  this  canvas  is  a 
woman  washing  her  face.  Quelle  jolie  figure! 
Ah  !  a  little  peasant,  a  muzhik  in  a  Russian 
blouse  !  see,  —  a  little  muzhik  !  So  you  do  not 
devote  yourself  exclusively  to  portraits  ?  ” 

“  Oh  !  that  is  rubbish.  I  was  trying  experi¬ 
ments  .  .  .  studies.” 

“Tell  me  your  opinion  of  the  portrait  painters 
of  the  present  day.  Is  it  not  true  that  there 
are  none  now  like  Titian  ?  There  is  not  that 
strength  of  color,  that  —  that  .  .  .  What  a  pity 
that  I  cannot  express  to  you  in  Russian.”  (The 
lady  was  fond  of  paintings,  and  had  gone 


THE  PORTRAIT 


245 


through  all  the  galleries  in  Italy  with  her  eye¬ 
glass.)  “  But  Monsieur  Nohl  .  .  .  ah,  how  he 
paints !  what  remarkable  work !  I  think  his 
faces  have  even  more  expression  than  Titian’s. 
You  do  not  know  M.  Nohl  ?  ” 

“Who  is  Nohl?”  inquired  the  artist. 

“Monsieur  Nohl.  Ah,  what  talent!  He 
painted  her  portrait  when  she  was  only  twelve 
years  old.  You  must  certainly  come  to  see  us. 
Lise,  you  shall  show  him  your  album.  You 
know,  we  came  expressly  that  you  might  begin 
her  portrait  immediately.” 

“What?  I  am  ready  this  very  moment.” 
And  in  a  trice  he  pulled  forward  an  easel  with 
a  piece  of  canvas  already  prepared,  grasped 
his  palette,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  daughter’s 
pretty  little  face.  If  he  had  been  acquainted 
with  human  nature,  he  might  have  read  in  it 
the  dawning  of  a  childish  passion  for  balls,  the 
dawning  of  sorrow  and  misery  at  the  length  of 
time  before  dinner  and  after  dinner,  of  a  desire 
to  go  to  walk  in  her  dress  only,  the  heavy 
traces  of  uninterested  application  to  various 
arts,  insisted  upon  by  her  mother  for  the  ele¬ 
vation  of  the  sentiments  of  her  soul.  But  the 


246 


THE  PORTRAIT 


artist  perceived  only  the  tender  little  face,  a 
seductive  subject  for  his  brush,  the  body  almost 
as  transparent  as  porcelain,  the  slight  attractive 
fatigue,  the  delicate  white  neck,  and  the  aris¬ 
tocratically  slender  form.  And  he  prepared 
beforehand  to  triumph,  to  display  the  delicacy 
of  his  brush,  which  had  hitherto  had  to  deal 
only  with  the  harsh  features  of  coarse  models, 
with  severe  antiques  and  copies  of  classic  mas¬ 
ters.  He  already  saw  in  fancy  how  this  delicate 
little  face  wouM  turn  out. 

“Do  you  know,”  said  the  lady  with  a  posi¬ 
tively  touching  expression  of  countenance,  “  I 
should  like  .  .  .  she  is  dressed  up  now ;  I  con¬ 
fess,  that  I  should  not  like  her  in  the  costume 
to  which  we  are  accustomed  :  I  should  like  her 
to  be  simply  attired,  and  seated  among  green 
shadows,  like  meadows,  with  a  flock  or  a  grove 
in  the  distance,  ...  so  that  it  could  not  be  seen 
that  she  goes  to  balls  or  fashionable  entertain¬ 
ments.  Our  balls,  I  confess,  so  murder  the 
intellect,  so  deaden  all  remnants  of  feeling.  .  .  . 
Simplicity,  would  there  were  more  simplicity  !  ” 
Alas  !  it  was  stamped  on  the  faces  of  mother 
and  daughter,  that  they  had  so  overdanced  them- 


THE  PORTRAIT 


24  7 


selves  at  balls,  that  they  had  become  almost  wax 
figures. 

Tchartkoff  set  to  work,  seated  the  original, 
reflected  a  bit,  fixed  upon  the  idea,  waved  his 
brush  in  the  air,  settling  the  points  mentally, 
screwed  his  eyes  up  a  little,  retreated,  looked 
off  in  the  distance,  and  then  began  and  finished 
the  sketching  in,  in  an  hour.  Satisfied  with  it, 
he  began  to  paint :  the  work  fascinated  him  ; 
he  forgot  every  thing,  forgot  the  very  existence 
of  the  aristocratic  ladies,  began  even  to  dis¬ 
play  some  artistic  tricks,  uttering  various  odd 
sounds;  humming  to  himself  now  and  then,  as 
artists  do  when  immersed  heart  and  soul  in 
their  work.  Without  the  slightest  ceremony, 
with  one  wave  of  his  brush,  he  made  the  sitter 
lift  her  head,  which  finally  began  to  turn  in 
a  very  decided  manner,  and  express  utter  weari¬ 
ness. 

“  Enough,  for  the  first  time,  enough,”  said 
the  lady. 

“A  little  more,”  said  the  artist,  forgetting 
himself. 

“No,  it  is  time  to  stop.  Lise,  three  o’clock!” 
said  the  lady,  taking  out  a  tiny  watch,  which 


248 


THE  PORTRAIT 


hung  by  a  gold  chain  from  her  girdle.  “  Ah, 
how  late  it  is  !  ”  she  cried. 

“Only  a  minute,”  said  Tchartkoff  innocently, 
with  the  pleading  voice  of  a  child. 

But  the  lady  appeared  to  be  not  at  all  in¬ 
clined  to  yield  to  his  artistic  demands  on  this 
occasion  :  she  promised  instead,  to  sit  longer 
the  next  time. 

“  It  is  vexatious,  all  the  same !  ”  thought 
Tchartkoff  to  himself :  “  I  had  just  got  my  hand 
in  ;  ”  and  he  remembered  that  no  one  had  inter¬ 
rupted  him  or  stopped  him  when  he  was  at 
work  in  his  studio  on  Vasilievsky  Ostroff.  Ni¬ 
kita  sat  motionless  in  one  place  —  you  might 
paint  him  as  long  as  you  pleased  :  he  even 
went  to  sleep  in  the  attitude  prescribed  to  him. 
And,  dissatisfied,  he  laid  his  brush  and  palette 
on  a  chair,  and  paused  in  irritation  before  the 
picture. 

The  woman  of  the  world’s  compliments 
awoke  him  from  his  revery.  He  flew  to  the 
door  to  show  them  out :  on  the  stairs  he  re¬ 
ceived  an  invitation  to  dine  with  them  the  fol¬ 
lowing  week,  and  returned  with  a  cheerful  face 
to  his  apartments.  The  aristocratic  lady  had 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


249 


completely  charmed  him.  Up  to  that  time  he 
had  looked  upon  such  beings  as  unapproach¬ 
able, —  born  solely  to  ride  in  magnificent  car¬ 
riages  with  liveried  footmen  and  stylish  coach¬ 
man,  and  to  cast  indifferent  glances  on  the  poor 
man  travelling  on  foot  in  a  cheap  cloak.  And 
now,  all  of  a  .  sudden,  one  of  those  beings  had 
entered  his  room  :  he  was  painting  her  portrait, 
was  invited  to  dinner  in  an  aristocratic  house. 
An  unusual  feeling  of  pleasure  took  possession 
of  him  :  he  was  completely  intoxicated,  and 
rewarded  himself  with  a  splendid  dinner,  an 
evening  at  the  theatre ;  and  afterwards  he  took 
a  ride  through  the  city  in  a  carriage  without 
any  necessity  whatever. 

But  during  all  these  days,  his  ordinary  work 
did  not  fall  in  with  his  mood  at  all.  He  did 
nothing  but  prepare  himself,  and  wait  for  the 
moment  when  the  bell  should  ring.  At  last  the 
aristocratic  lady  arrived  with  her  pale  daughter. 
He  seated  them,  pulled  forward  the  canvas,  with 
skill,  and  some  efforts  at  fashionable  airs,  and 
began  to  paint.  The  sunny  day  and  bright 
light  aided  him  not  a  little :  he  saw  in  his 
dainty  sitter  much,  which,  caught  and  commit- 


250 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


ted  to  the  canvas,  would  give  great  value  to  the 
portrait ;  he  perceived  that  he  might  bring  forth 
something  rare  if  he  could  reproduce,  with  ac¬ 
curacy,  all  which  nature  then  offered  to  his  eyes. 
His  heart  even  began  to  beat  faster  when  he 
felt  that  he  was  expressing  something  which 
others  had  not  even  seen  as  yet.  His  work 
engrossed  him  completely :  he  was  entirely  taken 
up  with  his  painting,  and  again  forgot  the  aris¬ 
tocratic  origin  of  the  sitter.  With  heaving 
breast  he  saw  the  delicate  traits  and  the  almost 
transparent  body  of  the  eighteen-year-old  maid¬ 
en  appear  under  his  hand.  He  had  caught 
every  shade,  the  slight  sallowness,  the  almost 
imperceptible  blue  tinge  under  the  eyes,  —  and 
was  already  preparing  to  put  in  the  tiny  pimple 
on  the  brow,  when  he  suddenly  heard  the  moth¬ 
er’s  voice  behind  him. 

“  Ah  !  why  do  you  paint  that  ?  it  is  not  neces¬ 
sary  :  and  you  have  made  it  here  ...  in  sev¬ 
eral  places,  rather  yellow  .  .  .  and  here  quite 
so,  like  dark  spots.”  The  artist  undertook  to 
explain  that  the  spots  and  yellow  tinge  would 
turn  out  well,  that  they  brought  out  the  delicate 
and  pleasing  tones  of  the  face.  He  was  in- 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


251 


formed  that  they  did  not  bring  out  tones,  and 
would  not  turn  out  well  at  all,  and  that  it  merely 
seemed  so  to  him.  “  But  permit  me  to  touch 
up  just  this  one  place,  here,  with  yellow/’  said 
the  simple-minded  artist.  But  he  was  not  per¬ 
mitted.  It  was  explained  to  him  that  just  to¬ 
day  Lise  did  not  feel  quite  well ;  that  she  never 
was  sallow,  and  that  her  face  was  distinguished 
for  its  fresh  coloring.  Sadly  he  began  to  erase 
what  his  brush  had  produced  upon  the  canvas. 
Many  a  nearly  invisible  trait  disappeared,  and 
with  it  vanished  also  a  portion  of  the  resem¬ 
blance.  He  began  indifferently  to  give  it  that 
commonplace  coloring  which  can  be  painted 
mechanically,  and  which  lends  to  a  face,  even 
when  taken  from  nature,  the  sort  of  cold  ideal¬ 
ity  observable  on  school  programmes.  But  the 
lady  was  satisfied  when  the  objectionable  color 
was  quite  banished.  She  merely  expressed  sur¬ 
prise  that  the  work  lasted  so  long,  and  added 
that  she  had  heard  that  he  finished  a  portrait 
completely  in  two  sittings.  The  artist  could 
not  think  of  any  answer  to  this.  The  ladies 
rose,  and  prepared  to  depart.  He  laid  aside  his 
brush,  escorted  them  to  the  door,  and  then  stood 


252 


THE  PORTRAIT 


disconsolate  for  a  long  while  in  one  spot,  before 
his  portrait. 

He  gazed  stupidly  at  it ;  and  meanwhile  there 
passed  before  his  mind  those  delicate  feminine 
features,  those  shades,  and  airy  tints  which  he 
had  copied,  which  his  brush  had  annihilated. 
Engrossed  with  them,  he  set  the  portrait  on 
one  side,  and  hunted  up  the  head  of  Psyche, 
which  he  had  long  before  thrown  on  canvas  in 
a  sketchy  manner.  It  was  a  pretty  little  face, 
well  painted,  but  entirely  ideal,  cold,  consisting 
of  the  common  features  not  assumed  by  a  living 
being.  For  lack  of  occupation,  he  now  began 
to  go  over  it,  imparting  to  it  all  he  had  taken 
note  of  in  his  aristocratic  sitter.  Those  fea¬ 
tures,  shadows,  tints,  which  he  had  noted,  made 
their  appearance  here  in  the  purified  form  in 
which  they  appear  when  the  painter,  after  close¬ 
ly  observing  nature,  subordinates  himself  to  her, 
and  produces  a  creation  equal  to  her  own. 

Psyche  began  to  live  ;  and  the  scarce  dawning 
thought  began,  little  by  little,  to  clothe  itself  in 
a  visible  form.  The  type  of  face  of  the  fash¬ 
ionable  young  lady  was  unconsciously  commu¬ 
nicated  to  Psyche,  and  nevertheless  she  had  an 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


253 


expression  of  her  own  which  gave  it  claims  to 
be  considered  in  truth,  an  original  creation.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  made  use  of  some  things  and 
yet  of  all  that  the  original  suggested  to  him 
throughout,  and  gave  himself  up  entirely  to  his 
work.  For  several  days  he  was  engrossed  by 
it  alone.  And  the  ladies  surprised  him  at  this 
work  on  their  arrival.  He  had  not  time  to  re¬ 
move  the  picture  from  the  easel.  Both  ladies 
uttered  a  cry  of  amazement,  and  clasped  their 
hands. 

“  Lise,  Lise  !  Ah,  how  like  !  Superbe,  su- 
perbe !  What  a  happy  thought  to  drape  her 
in  a  Greek  costume  !  Ah,  what  a  surprise!  ” 

The  artist  could  not  see  his  way  to  disabus¬ 
ing  the  ladies  of  their  pleasant  mistake.  Shame¬ 
facedly,  with  drooping  head,  he  murmured,  “  This 
is  Psyche.” 

“  In  the  character  of  Psyche  ?  (Test  char- 
mant !  ”  said  the  mother,  smiling,  upon  which 
the  daughter  also  smiled.  “  Confess,  Lise,  does 
it  not  please  you  to  be  painted  in  the  character 
of  Psyche  better  than  any  other  way  ?  Quelle 
idee  delicieuse  !  But  what  treatment !  It  is 
Correggio  himself.  I  must  say,  that,  although  I 


254 


THE  FOR  TEA  IT. 


had  read  and  heard  about  you,  I  did  not  know 
you  had  so  much  talent.  You  positively  must 
paint  me  too.”  Evidently,  the  lady  wanted  to 
be  portrayed  as  some  sort  of  Psyche  also. 

“What  am  I  to  do  with  them  ?”  thought  the 
artist.  “  If  they  will  have  it  so,  why,  let  Psyche 
pass  for  what  they  choose  :  ”  and  he  said  aloud, 
“Pray  sit  a  little  longer  :  I  will  touch  it  up  here 
and  there.” 

“  Ah !  I  am  afraid  you  will  ...  it  is  such  a 
likeness  now  !  ” 

But  the  artist  understood  that  the  difficulty 
was  with  the  sallowness,  and  so  he  re-assured 
them  by  saying  that  he  only  wished  to  give 
more  brilliancy  and  expression  to  the  eyes. 
But,  in  truth,  he  was  ashamed,  and  wished  to 
impart  a  little  more  likeness  to  the  original,  lest 
any  one  should  accuse  him  of  actual  barefaced 
flattery.  And,  in  fact,  the  features  of  the  pale 
young  girl  at  length  appeared  more  clearly  in 
Psyche’s  countenance. 

“  Enough,”  said  the  mother,  beginning  to  fear 
that  the  likeness  might  become  too  decided. 
The  artist  was  remunerated  in  every  way,  — 
with  smiles,  money,  compliments,  cordial  press- 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


255 


ures  of  the  hand,  invitations  to  dinner :  in  a 
word,  he  received  a  thousand  flattering  rewards. 

The  portrait  created  a  furor  in  the  city. 
The  lady  exhibited  it  to  her  friends  :  all  ad¬ 
mired  the  skill  with  which  the  artist  had  pre¬ 
served  the  likeness,  and  at  the  same  time 
conferred  more  beauty  on  the  original.  The 
last  remark,  of  course,  was  prompted  by  a 
slight  tinge  of  envy.  And  the  artist  was  sud¬ 
denly  overwhelmed  with  work.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  whole  city  wanted  to  be  painted  by  him. 
The  door-bell  rang  incessantly.  From  one 
point  of  view,  this  might  be  considered  advan¬ 
tageous,  as  presenting  to  him  endless  practice 
in  variety  and  number  of  faces.  But,  unfortu¬ 
nately,  they  were  all  people  who  were  hard  to 
get  along  with,  busy,  hurried  people,  or  belong¬ 
ing  to  the  fashionable  world,  consequently  more 


occupied  than  any  one  else,  and  therefore  im¬ 
patient  to  the  last  degree.  In  all  quarters,  the^ 
demand  was  merely  that  the  likeness  should  be 
good  and  quickly  done.  The  artist  perceived 
that  it  was  a  simple  impossibility  to  finish  his 
work;  that  it  was  necessary  to  exchange  the 
power  of  his  treatment  for  lightness  and  rapid- 


d 


256  THE  PORTRAIT 

ity,  —  to  catch  only  the  general,  palpable  ex¬ 
pression,  and  not  waste  labor  on  delicate  details 
—  in  a  word,  to  copy  nature  in  her  finish  was 
utterly  out  of  the  question.  Moreover,  it  must 
be  added  that  nearly  all  his  sitters  made  many 
stipulations  on  various  points.  The  ladies  re¬ 
quired  that  mind  and  character  chiefly  should 
be  represented  in  their  portraits :  that  he  should 
make  a  point  of  nothing  else ;  that  all  angles 
should  be  rounded,  all  unevenness  smoothed 
away,  and  even  removed  entirely  if  possible  ; 
in  a  word,  that  their  faces  should  be  such  as  to 
cause  every  one  to  stare  with  admiration,  if  not 
fall  in  love  with  outright.  And  in  consequence 
of  this,  when  they  sat  to  him,  they  sometimes 
assumed  expressions  which  greatly  amazed  the 
artist :  one  tried  to  express  melancholy ;  another, 
meditation ;  another  wanted  to  make  her  mouth 

small  on  any  terms,  and  puckered  it  up  to  such 

• 

an  extent  that  it  finally  looked  like  a  spot  about 
as  big  as  a  pinhead.  And  in  spite  of  it  all, 
they  demanded  of  him  good  likenesses  and  un¬ 
constrained  naturalness.  And  the  men  were  no 
better  than  the  ladies  :  one  insisted  upon  being 
painted  with  an  energetic,  muscular  turn  to  his 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


257 


head  ;  another,  with  upturned,  inspired  eyes ; 
a  lieutenant  of  the  guard  demanded  that  Mars 
should  be  visible  in  his  eyes,  without  fail  ;  an 
official  in  the  civil  service  drew  himself  up  to 
his  full  height  in  order  to  express  his  upright¬ 
ness,  his  nobility,  in  his  face,  and  so  that  his 
hand  might  rest  upon  a  book  bearing  the  words 
in  plain  characters,  “  He  always  stood  up  for 
the  right.”  At  first  such  demands  threw  the 
artist  into  a  cold  perspiration  :  he  had  to  think 
it  over,  to  consider;  and  there  was  but  very 
little  time  for  that.  Finally  he  acquired  the 
knack  of  it,  and  never  troubled  himself  at  all 
about  it.  He  understood  at  a  word  how  each 
wanted  himself  portrayed.  If  a  man  wanted 
Mars  in  his  face,  he  put  in  Mars  :  he  gave  a 
Byronic  turn  and  attitude  to  those  who  aimed 
at  Byron.  If  the  ladies  wanted  to  be  Corinne, 
Undine,  or  Aspasia,  he  agreed  with  great  readi¬ 
ness,  and  threw  in  a  sufficient  measure  of  good 
looks  from  his  own  imagination,  which,  as  is 
well  known,  does  no  harm,  and  for  the  sake  of 
which  an  artist  is  even  forgiven  a  lack  of  re¬ 
semblance,  He  soon  began  to  wonder  himself 
at  the  rapidity  and  dash  of  his  brush.  And  of 


258 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


course  those  who  sat  to  him  were  in  ecstasies, 
and  proclaimed  him  a  genius. 

Tchartkoff  became  a  fashionable  artist  in 
every  sense  of  the  word.  He  began  to  dine 
out,  to  escort  ladies  to  the  galleries  and  even 
to  walk,  to  dress  foppishly,  and  to  assert  audi¬ 
bly  that  an  artist  should  belong  to  society,  that 
he  must  uphold  his  profession,  that  artists 
dress  like  shoemakers,  do  not  know  how  to  be¬ 
have  themselves,  do  not  preserve  the  highest 
tone,  and  are  lacking  in  all  polish.  At  home, 
in  his  studio,  he  carried  cleanliness  and  spot¬ 
lessness  to  the  last  extreme,  set  up  two  superb 
footmen,  took  foppish  pupils,  dressed  several 
times  a  day  in  various  morning  costumes, 
curled  his  hair,  practised  various  manners  of 
receiving  his  callers,  busied  himself  in  adorn¬ 
ing  his  person  in  every  conceivable  way,  in 
order  to  produce  a  pleasing  impression  on  the 
ladies  :  in  a  word,  it  would  soon  have  been  im¬ 
possible  for  any  one  to  recognize  in  him  the 
modest  artist  who  had  formerly  toiled  unknown 
in  his  miserable  quarters  in  the  Vasilievsky 
Ostroff.  He  now  expressed  himself  decidedly 
concerning  artists  and  art  ;  declared  that  too 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


259 


much  credit  had  been  given  to  the  old  masters  ; 
that  they  all,  down  to  Raphael,  painted  not  fig¬ 
ures,  but  herrings  ;  that  the  idea  that  there  was 
any  holiness  about  them  existed  only  in  the 
minds  of  the  spectators ;  that  even  Raphael 
did  not  always  paint  well,  and  that  fame  at¬ 
tached  to  many  of  his  works,  simply  by  force 
of  tradition  ;  that  Michael  Angelo  was  a  brag¬ 
gart  because  he  could  boast  only  a  knowledge 
of  anatomy  ;  that  there  was  no  grace  about 
him,  and  that  real  brilliancy  and  power  of  treat¬ 
ment  and  coloring  were  to  be  looked  for  only 
in  the  present  century.  And  there,  naturally, 
the  question  touched  him  personally.  “No,  I 
do  not  understand,”  said  he,  “how  others  toil 
and  work  with  difficulty  :  a  man  who  labors  for 
months  over  a  picture  is  a  dauber,  and  no  artist 
in  my  opinion ;  I  don’t  believe  he  has  any 
talent :  genius  works  boldly,  rapidly.  Here,” 
said  he,  turning  generally  to  his  visitors,  “  is 
this  portrait  which  I  painted  in  two  days,  this 
head  in  one  day,  this  in  a  few  hours,  this  in 
little  more  than  an  hour.  No,  I  .  ,  .  I  confess 
I  do  not  recognize  as  art  that  which  adds  line  to 
line  :  that  is  a  trade,  not  art.”  In  this  manner 


26  o 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


did  he  lecture  his  visitors  ;  and  the  visitors  ad¬ 
mired  the  strength  and  boldness  of  his  works, 
even  uttered  exclamations  on  hearing  how  fast 
they  had  been  produced,  and  then  said  to  each 
other,  “This  is  talent,  real  talent  !  see  how  he 
speaks,  how  his  eyes  gleam.  II  y  a  quelque 
chose  cC extraordinaire  dans  tonte  sa  figure  !  ” 

It  flattered  the  artist  to  hear  such  reports 
about  himself.  When  printed  praise  appeared 
in  the  papers,  he  rejoiced  like  a  child,  although 
this  praise  was  purchased  with  his  money.  He 
carried  the  printed  slips  about  with  him  every¬ 
where,  showed  them  to  friends  and  acquaint¬ 
ances  as  if  by  accident,  and  it  pleased  him  to 
the  extent  of  simple-minded  naivete.  His 
fame  increased,  his  works  and  orders  multi¬ 
plied.  Already  the  same  portraits  over  and 
over  wearied  him  with  the  same  attitudes  and 
turns,  which  he  had  learned  by  heart.  He 
painted  them  now  without  any  great  interest  in 
the  work,  trying  to  make  some  sort  of  a  head, 
and  giving  them  to  his  pupils  to  finish.  At  first 
he  had  tried  to  devise  a  new  attitude  each  time, 
to  surprise  with  his  power  and  the  effect.  Now 
this  had  grown  wearisome  to  him.  His  brain 


THE  PORTRAIT 


26l 


was  tired  with  planning  and  thinking.  It  was 
out  of  his  power,  then  or  ever  :  his  fast  life, 
and  society,  where  he  tried  to  play  the  part  of 
a  man  of  the  world,  all  this  bore  him  far  away 
from  labor  and  thought.  His  work  grew  cold 
and  dim  ;  and  he  betook  himself  with  indiffer¬ 
ence  to  monotonous,  set,  well-worn  forms. 
The  uniform,  cold,  eternally  spick  and  span, 
and,  so  to  speak,  buttoned-up  faces  of  the  govern¬ 
ment  officials,  soldiers,  and  statesmen,  did  not 
offer  a  wide  field  for  his  brush  :  it  forgot  superb 
draperies,  and  powerful  emotion  and  passion. 
Of  groups,  artistic  drama  and  its  lofty  connec¬ 
tions,  there  was  nothing  to  be  said.  Before 
him  was  only  a  uniform,  a  corsage,  a  dress-coat, 
in  the  face  of  which  the  artist  feels  cold,  and 
before  which  all  imagination  vanishes.  Even 
his  own  peculiar  merits  were  no  longer  visible 
in  his  works,  yet  they  continued  to  enjoy  re¬ 
nown  ;  although  genuine  connoisseurs  and  artists 
merely  shrugged  their  shoulders  when  they  saw 
his  latest  productions.  But  some  who  had 
known  Tchartkoff  before,  could  not  understand 
how  the  talent  of  which  he  had  given  such 
clear  indications  in  the  beginning,  could  have 


262 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


so  vanished  ;  and  they  strove  in  vain  to  divine 
by  what  means  genius  could  be  extinguished  in 
a  man  just  when  he  had  attained  to  the  full 
development  of  his  powers. 

But  the  intoxicated  artist  did  not  hear  these 
criticisms.  He  began  to  attain  to  the  age  of 
dignity,  both  in  mind  and  years :  he  began  to 
grow  stout,  and  increase  visibly  in  flesh.  He 
read  in  the  papers  phrases  with  adjectives,  “  Our 
most  respected  Andrei  Petrovitch;  our  worthy 
Andrei  Petrovitch He  began  to  receive  offers 
of  distinguished  posts  in  the  service,  invitations 
to  examinations  and  committees.  He  began,  as  • 
is  usually  the  case  in  maturer  years,  to  advocate 
Raphael  and  the  old  masters,  not  because  he 
had  become  thoroughly  convinced  of  their  tran¬ 
scendent  merits,  but  in  order  to  snub  the  younger 
artists.  He  began,  according  to  the  universal 
custom  of  those  who  have  attained  maturity,  to 
accuse  all  young  men,  without  exception,  of  im¬ 
morality  and  a  vicious  turn  of  mind.  He  began 
to  believe  that  every  thing  in  the  world  simply 
happens,  that  there  is  no  higher  inspiration,  and 
that  every  thing  should  of  necessity  be  brought 
under  one  strict  rule  in  the  interests  of  accuracy 


THE  FOR  TEA  IT. 


263 


and  uniformity.  In  a  word,  his  life  already  was 
approaching  the  verge  of  the  years  when  every 
thing  which  suggests  impulse,  contracts  within 
a  man  ;  when  a  powerful  chord  appeals  more 
feebly  to  the  spirit,  and  weaves  no  piercing 
strains  about  the  heart  ;  when  the  touch  of 
beauty  no  longer  converts  virgin  strength  into 
fire  and  flame,  but  all  the  burnt-out  sentiments 
become  more  vulnerable  to  the  sound  of  gold, 
hearken  more  attentively  to  its  seductive  music, 
and,  little  by  little,  permit  themselves  to  be 
completely  lulled  to  sleep  by  it.  Fame  can  give 
no  pleasure  to  him  who  has  stolen  it,  not  won 
it :  it  produces  a  permanent  shock  only  in  the 
breast  of  him  who  is  worthy  of  it.  And  so  all 
his  feelings  and  impulses  turned  towards  gold. 
Gold  was  his  passion,  his  ideal,  his  fear,  his  de¬ 
light,  his  aim.  The  bundles  of  bank-bills  in¬ 
creased  in  his  coffers  ;  and,  like  all  to  whose  lot 
falls  this  fearful  gift,  he  began  to  grow  miserly, 
inaccessible  to  every  sentiment  except  the  love 
of  gold,  a  causeless  miser,  an  extravagant  amass- 
er,  and  on  the  point  of  becoming  one  of  those 
strange  beings  of  whom  there  are  many  in 
this  unfeeling  world,  on  whom  the  man  full  of 


264 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


life  and  heart  gazes  with  horror,  who  regards 
them  as  walking  stony  sepulchres  with  dead 
men  inside,  instead  of  hearts.  But  something 
occurred  which  gave  him  a  powerful  shock,  and 
disturbed  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life. 

One  day  he  found  upon  his  table  a  note,  in 
which  the  Academy  of  Painting  begged  him,  as 
a  worthy  member  of  its  body,  to  come  and  give 
his  opinion  upon  a  new  work  which  had  been 
sent  from  Italy  by  a  Russian  artist  who  was 
perfecting  himself  there.  The  artist  was  one 
of  his  former  comrades,  who  had  been  possessed 
v\ith  a  passion  for  art  from  his  earliest  years, 
had  given  himself  up  to  it  with  his  whole  soul, 
estranged  himself  from  his  friends,  from  his 
relatives,  from  his  pleasant  habits,  and  had  has¬ 
tened  there,  where,  under  a  magnificent  sky, 
flourishes  a  splendid  hot-bed  of  art,  to  wonder¬ 
ful  Rome,  at  whose  very  name  the  artist’s  heart 
beats  wildly  and  hotly.  There,  like  an  exile, 
he  buried  himself  in  his  work  and  in  toil  from 
which  he  permitted  nothing  to  entice  him.  He 
caied  not  whether  his  character  were  talked 
about,  or  not,  or  his  ignorance  of  the  art  of 
getting  on  with  people,  or  his  neglect  of  polite 


THE  PORTRAIT 


265 


usages  ;  nor  of  the  discredit  which  he  cast  upon 
his  calling  of  artist  by  his  poor,  old-fashioned 
dress.  It  was  nothing  to  him  if  his  brother 
artists  were  angry.  He  neglected  every  thing, 
and  devoted  himself  wholly  to  art.  He  visited 
the  galleries  unweariedly,  he  stood  for  hours  at 
a  time  before  the  works  of  the  great  masters, 
seizing  and  studying  their  marvellous  methods. 
He  never  finished  any  thing  without  revising  his 
impressions  several  times  before  these  great 
teachers,  and  reading  in  their  works  silent  but 
eloquent  counsels.  He  entered  into  no  noisy 
conversations  or  disputes.  He  neither  advo¬ 
cated  nor  opposed  the  purists.  He  gave  each 
impartially  his  due,  appropriating  from  all  only 
that  which  was  most  beautiful,  and  finally  be¬ 
came  the  pupil  of  the  divine  Raphael  alone  — 
as  a  great  poet-artist,  after  reading  many  works 
of  various  kinds,  full  of  many  charms  and  splen¬ 
did  beauties,  at  last  made  Homer’s  Iliad  alone 
his  breviary,  having  discovered  that  it  contains 
all  one  wants,  and  that  there  is  nothing  which 
is  not  expressed  in  it,  in  deep  and  grand  per¬ 
fection.  And  so  he  brought  away  from  his 
school  the  grand  conception  of  creation,  the 


266 


THE  PORTRAIT 


mighty  beauty  of  thought,  the  high  charm  of 
that  heavenly  brush. 

When  Tchartkoff  entered  the  room,  he  found 
a  great  crowd  of  visitors  already  collected  before 
the  picture.  The  most  profound  silence,  such  as 
rarely  settles  upon  a  throng  of  critics,  reigned 
over  all,  on  this  occasion.  He  hastened  to 
assume  the  significant  expression  of  a  connois¬ 
seur,  and  approached  the  picture ;  but,  O  God ! 
what  did  he  behold  ! 

Pure,  faultless,  beautiful  as  a  bride,  stood  the 
picture  before  him.  Modest,  reverent,  innocent, 
and  simple  as  a  guardian  angel,  it  rose  above 
them  all.  It  seemed  as  though  the  divine  fig¬ 
ures,  embarrassed  by  the  many  glances  directed 
at  them,  had  dropped  their  beautiful  eyelashes 
in  confusion.  The  critics  regarded  the  new, 
hitherto  unknown  work,  with  a  feeling  of  in¬ 
voluntary  wonder.  All  seemed  united  in  it,  — 
the  art  of  Raphael,  which  was  reflected  in 
the  lofty  grace  of  the  grouping ;  the  art  of 
Correggio,  breathing  from  the  finished  per¬ 
fection  of  the  workmanship.  But  more  striking 
than  all  else  was  the  evident  power  of  creation, 
still  contained  in  the  artist’s  mind.  The  very 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


267 


minutest  object  in  the  picture  was  informed  with 
it ;  every  thing  was  done  with  order  and  inward 
power;  he  had  caught  that  melting  roundness 
of  outline  which  is  visible  in  nature  only  to  the 
artist  creator,  and  which  comes  out  as  angles 
with  a  copyist.  It  was  plainly  to  be  seen  how 
the  artist,  having  drawn  it  all  from  the  visible 
world,  had  first  stored  it  in  his  mind,  and  then 
had  drawn  it  thence,  as  from  a  spiritual  source, 
into  one  harmonious,  triumphant  song.  And  it 
was  evident,  even  to  the  uninitiated,  how  vast 
a  gulf  was  fixed  between  creation  and  a  mere 
copy  from  nature.  It  was  almost  impossible  to 
describe  that  rare  silence  which  unconsciously 
overpowered  all  who  cast  their  eyes  on  the  pic¬ 
ture, —  not  a  rustle,  not  a  sound  :  and  the  picture 
seemed  more  and  more  noble  with  every  moment 
that  passed  ;  more  brilliantly  and  wonderfully 
stood  forth  at  length  in  one  instant,  —  the  fruit 
which  had  descended  from  heaven  into  the  ar¬ 
tist’s  mind, — the  instant  for  which  all  human 
life  is  but  the  preparation.  Involuntary  tears 
stood  ready  to  fall  in  the  eyes  of  those  who 
surrounded  the  picture.  It  seemed  as  though 
all  tastes,  all  bold,  irregular  errors  of  taste, 


268 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


even,  joined  in  a  silent  hymn  to  the  divine 
work. 

Motionless,  with  open  mouth,  Tchartkoff  stood 
before  the  picture  ;  and  at  length,  when  by  de¬ 
grees  the  visitors  and  critics  began  to  murmur 
and  comment  upon  the  merits  of  the  work,  and 
when  at  length  they  turned  to  him,  and  begged 
him  to  express  an  opinion,  he  came  to  himself 
once  more  ;  he  tried  to  assume  an  indifferent, 
every-day  expression ;  tried  to  make  some  of  the 
commonplace,  every-day  remarks  of  hardened 
artists,  in  the  following  style:  “Yes,  in  fact, 
to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  the 
artist’s  talent ;  there  is  something  to  it ;  he  evi¬ 
dently  tried  to  express  something  ;  but  as  to 
the  chief  point  ”...  and  then  as  a  conclu¬ 
sion  to  this,  of  course  follow  praises  to  such  an 
effect  that  no  artist  would  have  felt  flattered 
by  them:  he  tried  to  do  this;  but  the  speech 
died  upon  his  lips,  tears  and  sobs  burst  forth 
uncontrollably  for  answer,  and  he  rushed  from 
the  room  like  one  beside  himself. 

In  a  moment  he  stood,  deprived  of  sense 
and  motion,  in  the  middle  of  his  magnificent 
studio.  All  his  being,  all  his  life,  had  been 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


269 


aroused  in  one  instant,  as  if  youth  had  re¬ 
turned  to  him,  as  if  the  dying  sparks  of  his 
talent  had  blazed  forth  afresh.  The  bandage 
suddenly  fell  from  his  eyes.  Heavens  !  to 
think  of  having  mercilessly  wasted  the  best 
years  of  his  youth,  of  having  extinguished, 
trodden  out  perhaps,  the  spark  of  fire,  which, 
cherished  in  his  breast,  might  perhaps  have 
been  developed  now  into  magnificence  and 
beauty,  and  have  extorted,  too,  its  meed  of  tears 
and  admiration !  And  to  have  ruined  it  all, 
ruined  it  without  pity  !  It  seemed  as  though 
suddenly  and  all  together  there  revived  in  his 
soul  those  impulses,  that  devotion,  which  he 
had  known  in  other  days.  He  seized  a  brush, 
and  approached  his  canvas.  The  perspiration 
started  out  upon  his  face  with  his  efforts  :  one 
thought  possessed  him  wholly,  one  desire  con¬ 
sumed  him  ;  he  tried  to  depict  a  fallen  angel. 
This  idea  was  most  in  harmony  with  his  frame 
of  mind.  But  alas  !  his  figures,  attitudes, 
groups,  thoughts,  arranged  themselves  stiffly, 
disconnectedly.  His  hand  and  his  imagination 
had  been  too  long  confined  to  one  groove  ;  and 
the  powerless  effort  to  escape  from  the  bonds 


270 


THE  PORTRAIT 


and  fetters  which  he  had  imposed  upon  himself, 
showed  itself  in  irregularities  and  errors.  He 
had  despised  the  long,  wearisome  ladder  to 
knowledge,  and  the  first  fundamental  law  of 
the  future  great  man.  He  gave  vent  to  his 
vexation.  He  ordered  all  his  last  productions 
to  be  taken  out  of  his  studio,  all  the  fashion¬ 
able,  lifeless  pictures,  all  the  portraits  of  hus¬ 
sars,  ladies,  and  councillors  of  state. 

He  shut  himself  up  alone  in  his  room,  would 
order  no  food,  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
his  work.  He  sat  toiling  like  a  youth,  like  a 
scholar.  But  how  pitifully  ignoble  was  all 
which  proceeded  from  his  hand !  He  was 
stopped  at  every  step  by  his  ignorance  of  the 
very  first  principles  :  the  simple  ignorance  of 
the  mechanical  part  chilled  all  inspirations,  and 
formed  an  impassable  barrier  to  his  imagination. 
His  brush  returned  involuntarily  to  hackneyed 
forms  :  the  hands  folded  themselves  in  a  set 
attitude;  the  heads  dared  not  make  any  unusual 
turn  ;  the  very  folds  of  the  garments  turned 
out  commonplace,  and  would  not  subject  them¬ 
selves  or  drape  themselves  to  any  unaccus¬ 
tomed  posture  of  the  body.  And  he  felt,  he 
felt  and  saw  it  all  himself. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


271 


“But  had  I  really  any  talent  ?”  he  said  at 
length:  “did  not  I  deceive  myself  ?”  And, 
uttering  these  words,  he  turned  to  his  early 
works,  which  he  had  painted  so  purely,  so  un¬ 
selfishly,  in  former  days,  in  his  wretched  cabin 
yonder  in  lonely  Vasilievsky  Ostroff,  far  from 
people,  luxury,  and  every  indulgence.  He 
turned  to  them  now,  and  began  attentively  to 
examine  them  all ;  and  all  the  misery  of  his  for¬ 
mer  life  came  back  to  him.  “Yes,”  he  cried 
despairingly,  “  I  had  talent  :  the  signs  and 
traces  of  it  are  everywhere  visible.”  .  .  . 

He  paused  suddenly,  and  shivered  all  over  : 
his  eyes  encountered  eyes  fixed  immovably 
upon  him.  It  was  that  remarkable  portrait 
which  he  had  bought  in  the  Shtchukinui  Dvor. 
All  this  time  it  had  been  covered  up,  concealed 
by  other  pictures,  and  had  utterly  gone  out  of 
his  mind.  Now,  as  if  by  design,  when  all  the 
fashionable  portraits  and  paintings  had  been 
removed  from  the  studio,  it  looked  forth,  to¬ 
gether  with  the  productions  of  his  early  youth. 
As  he  recalled  all  the  strange  story  ;  as  he  re¬ 
membered  that  this  singular  portrait  had  been, 
in  a  manner,  the  cause  of  his  errors ;  that  the 


272 


THE  FOR  TEA /T. 


hoard  of  money  which  he  had  obtained  in  such 
peculiar  fashion  had  given  birth  in  his  mind  to 
all  the  wild  caprices  which  had  destroyed  his 
talent,  —  madness  was  on  the  point  of  taking 
possession  of  him.  On  the  instant  he  ordered 
the  hateful  portrait  to  be  removed.  But  his 
mental  excitement  was  not  thereby  diminished. 
Every  feeling,  his  whole  being,  was  shaken  to 
its  foundation  ;  and  he  suffered  that  fearful  tor¬ 
ture  which  is  sometimes  exhibited  in  nature,  as 
a  striking  anomaly,  when  a  feeble  talent  strives 
to  display  itself  on  a  scale  too  great  for  it,  and 
cannot  display  itself,  —  that  torture  which  in 
youth  gives  birth  to  greatness,  but,  when 
revery  is  carried  to  too  great  an  extent,  is  con¬ 
verted  into  unquenchable  thirst,  —  that  fearful 
torture  which  renders  a  man  capable  of  terrible 
things.  A  horrible  envy  took  possession  of 
him,  envy  which  bordered  on  madness.  The 
gall  flew  to  his  face  when  he  beheld  a  work 
which  bore  the  stamp  of  talent.  He  gnashed 
his  teeth,  and  devoured  it  with  the  glare  of  a 
basilisk.  He  conceived  the  most  devilish  plan 
which  ever  entered  into  the  mind  of  man,  and 
he  hastened  with  the  strength  of  madness  to 


THE  FOR  TEA  IT. 


273 


carry  it  into  execution.  He  began  to  purchase 
the  best  which  art  produced,  of  every  kind. 
Having  bought  a  picture  at  a  great  price,  he 
transported  it  to  his  room  with  care,  and  flung 
himself  upon  it  with  the  ferocity  of  a  tiger,  cut  it, 
tore  it,  chopped  it  into  bits,  and  stamped  upon 
it,  accompanying  these  proceedings  with  a  grin 
of  delight.  The  incalculable  riches  which  he 
had  amassed,  enabled  him  to  gratify  this  devil¬ 
ish  desire.  He  opened  his  bags  of  gold,  and 
unlocked  his  coffers.  No  monster  of  ignorance 
ever  destroyed  so  many  superb  productions  of 
art  as  did  this  raging  avenger.  At  any  auction 
where  he  made  his  appearance,  every  one  de¬ 
spaired  at  once  of  obtaining  any  work  of  art. 
It  seemed  as  if  an  angry  heaven  had  sent  this 
fearful  scourge  into  the  world  expressly  to  de¬ 
stroy  all  harmony.  This  terrible  passion  com¬ 
municated  to  him  a  horrible  color :  the  gall 
abode  permanently  in  his  face.  Blame  of  the 
world,  and  scorn  of  it,  were  expressed  in  his 
countenance.  It  seemed  as  though  that  awful 
demon  were  incarnate  in  him,  which  Pushkin 
has  described  in  an  ideal  manner.  His  tongue 
uttered  nothing  except  biting  and  censorious 


ffikc e 


THE  PORTRAIT 


274 

words.  He  swooped  down  like  a  harpy  into 
the  street ;  and  all,  even  his  acquaintances, 
catching  sight  of  him  in  the  distance,  sought  to 
turn  aside  and  avoid  a  meeting  with  him,  say¬ 
ing  that  it  poisoned  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Fortunately  for  the  world  and  art,  such  a 
strained  and  forced  life  could  not  last  long: 
the  measure  of  his  passions  was  too  abnormal 
and  colossal  for  his  feeble  strength.  The 
attacks  of  madness  began  to  appear  more  fre¬ 
quently,  and  ended  at  last  in  the  most  frightful 
illness.  A  violent  fever,  combined  with  gallop¬ 
ing  consumption,  seized  upon  him  with  such 
force,  that  in  three  days  there  remained  only  a 
shadow  of  his  former  self.  To  this  was  added 
indications  of  hopeless  madness.  Sometimes 
several  men  were  unable  to  hold  him.  The 
long-forgotten,  living  eyes  of  the  remarkable 
portrait  began  to  torment  him,  and  then  his 
madness  became  dreadful.  All  the  people  who 
surrounded  his  bed  seemed  to  him  horrible  por¬ 
traits.  The  portrait  doubled  and  quadrupled 
itself  in  his  eyes  ;  all  the  walls  seemed  hung 
with  portraits,  which  fastened  their  living, 
motionless  eyes  upon  him  ;  horrible  portraits 


THE  FOE  TEA  IT. 


27S 


glared  at  him  from  the  ceiling,  from  the  floor  ; 
the  room  widened  and  lengthened  endlessly,  in 
order  to  make  room  for  more  of  the  motionless 
eyes.  The  doctor  who  had  undertaken  to  at¬ 
tend  him,  having  learned  something  of  his 
strange  history,  strove  with  all  his  might  to 
fathom  the  secret  connection  between  the  vis¬ 
ions  of  his  fancy  and  the  occurrences  of  his 
life,  but  without  the  slightest  success.  The 
sick  man  understood  nothing,  felt  nothing,  ex¬ 
cept  his  own  tortures,  and  gave  utterance  only 
to  frightful  yells  and  unintelligible  gibberish. 
At  last  his  life  ended  in  a  final  attack  of  unut¬ 
terable  suffering.  His  corpse  was  horrible. 
Nothing  could  be  found  of  all  his  great  wealth ; 
but  when  they  beheld  the  mutilated  fragments 
of  all  the  grand  works  of  art,  the  value  of 
which  exceeded  a  million,  they  understood  the 
terrible  use  which  had  been  made  of  it. 


2?6 


THE  PORTRAIT 


PART  II. 

A  throng  of  carriages,  droschkis,  and  ca¬ 
lashes  stood  at  the  entrance  of  a  house  in  which 
an  auction  sale  was  going  on  of  the  effects 
belonging  to  one  of  those  wealthy  art-lovers 
who  have  dreamed  their  lives  sweetly  away, 
engrossed  with  Loves  and  Zephyrs,  have  inno¬ 
cently  passed  for  Maecenases,  and  in  a  simple- 
minded  fashion  expended,  to  that  end,  the  mil¬ 
lions  amassed  by  their  thrifty  fathers,  and 
frequently  even  by  their  own  early  labors.  As 
is  well  known,  there  are  no  such  Maecenases  in 
existence  now;  and  our  nineteenth  century  long 
ago  acquired  the  aspect  of  a  parsimonious  bank¬ 
er,  rejoicing  in  his  millions  only  in  the  form  of 
figures  jotted  down  on  paper.  The  long  saloon 
was  filled  with  the  most  motley  throng  of  vis¬ 
itors,  collected  like  birds  of  prey  swooping  down 
upon  an  unburied  corpse.  There  was  a  whole 
squadron  of  Russian  shop-keepers  from  the 
Gostinnui  Dvor,  and  even  from  the  old-clothes 
mart,  in  blue  coats  of  foreign  make.  Their 


THE  PORTRAIT 


277 


faces  and  expressions  were  a  little  more  sedate 
here,  more  natural,  and  did  not  display  that 
fictitious  desire  to  serve  which  is  so  marked  in 
the  Russian  shop-keeper  when  he  stands  before 
a  customer  in  his  shop.  Here  they  stood  upon 
no  ceremony,  although  the  saloons  were  full  of 
those  very  aristocrats  before  whom,  in  any  other 
place,  they  would  have  been  ready  to  sweep, 
with  reverences,  the  dust  brought  in  by  their 
feet.  Here  they  were  quite  at  their  ease,  han¬ 
dled  pictures  and  books  without  ceremony, 
desirous  of  ascertaining  the  value  of  the  goods, 
and  boldly  disarranged  the  prices  attached  by 
the  connoisseur-Counts.  There  were  many  of 
the  infallible  attendants  of  auctions  who  make 
it  a  point  to  go  to  one  every  day  as  regularly 
as  to  take  their  breakfast ;  aristocratic  con¬ 
noisseurs,  who  look  upon  it  as  their  duty  not 
to  miss  any  opportunity  of  adding  to  their  col¬ 
lections,  and  who  have  no  other  occupation 
between  twelve  o’clock  and  one  ;  finally  those 
noble  gentlemen,  with  garments  and  pockets 
very  threadbare,  who  make  their  daily  appear¬ 
ance  without  any  selfish  object  in  view,  but 
merely  to  see  how  it  all  goes  off,  —  who  will 


278 


THE  FOR  TEA  IT. 


give  more,  who  less,  who  will  outbid  the  other, 
and  who  will  get  it.  A  quantity  of  pictures 
were  lying  about  in  disorder :  with  them  were 
mingled  furniture,  and  books  with  possibly  the 
cipher  of  the  former  owner,  who  never  was 
moved  by  any  laudable  desire  to  glance  into 
them.  Chinese  vases,  marble  slabs  for  tables, 
old  and  new  furniture  with  curving  lines,  with 
griffins,  sphinxes,  and  lions’  paws,  gilded  and 
ungilded,  chandeliers,  sconces,  —  all  were 
heaped  together,  and  not  in  the  order  of  the 
shops.  It  presented  a  perfect  chaos  of  art. 
The  feeling  we  generally  experience  at  an  auc¬ 
tion  is  a  strange  one  :  every  thing  about  it  bears 
some  likeness  to  a  funeral  procession.  The 
room  in  which  it  takes  place,  is  always  rather 
dark,  —  the  windows,  piled  up  with  furniture 
and  pictures,  admit  but  scant  light :  the  silence 
expressed  in  the  faces,  and  the  funereal  voice  of 
the  auctioneer,  the  tapping  of  the  hammer  and 
the  requiem  of  the  poor  arts,  met  together  so 
strangely  here ;  all  this  seems  to  heighten  still 
further  the  peculiar  unpleasantness  of  the  im¬ 
pression. 

The  auction  appeared  to  be  at  its  height.  A 


THE  TOE  TEA  IT. 


279 


whole  throng  of  respectable  people  had  collected 
in  a  group,  and  were  discussing  something 
eagerly.  On  all  sides  resounded  the  words, 
rubles ,  rubles ,  giving  the  auctioneer  no  time 
to  repeat  the  added  price,  which  had  already 
reached  a  sum  four  times  as  great  as  the  price 
announced.  The  surging  throng  was  compet¬ 
ing  for  a  portrait  which  could  not  but  arrest  the 
attention  of  all  who  possessed  any  knowledge 
of  art.  The  skilled  hand  of  an  artist  was  plainly 
visible  in  it.  The  portrait  had  apparently  been 
several  times  restored  and  renovated,  and  pre¬ 
sented  the  dark  features  of  an  Asiatic  in  vo¬ 
luminous  garments,  with  a  strange  and  remark¬ 
able  expression  of  countenance  ;  but  what  struck 
the  buyers  more  than  all  else,  was  the  peculiar 
liveliness  of  the  eyes.  The  more  the  people 
looked  at  them,  the  more  did  they  seem  to 
pierce  into  each  man’s  heart.  This  peculiarity, 
this  strange  illusion  of  the  artist,  attracted  the 
attention  of  nearly  all.  Many  who  had  been 
bidding  for  it,  withdrew  because  the  price  had 
risen  to  an  incredible  sum.  There  remained 
only  two  well-known  aristocrats,  amateurs  of 
painting,  who  were  unwilling  to  forego  such  an 


28o 


THE  PORTRAIT 


acquisition.  They  grew  warm,  and  would,  prob¬ 
ably,  have  raised  the  price  to  an  impossible 
sum,  had  not  one  of  the  lookers-on  suddenly  ex¬ 
claimed,  “  Permit  me  to  interrupt  your  competi¬ 
tion  for  a  while :  I,  perhaps,  more  than  any 
other,  have  a  right  to  this  portrait/’ 

These  words  at  once  fixed  the  attention  of 
all  upon  him.  He  was  a  tall  man  of  thirty-five, 
with  long  black  curls.  His  pleasing  face,  full 
of  a  certain  bright  nonchalance,  indicated  a 
soul  removed  from  all  wearisome,  worldly  ex¬ 
citement  ;  his  garments  made  no  pretence  to 
fashion  :  all  about  him  indicated  the  artist.  He 
was,  in  fact,  B.  the  painter,  personally  well 
known  to  many  of  those  present. 

“  However  strange  my  words  may  seem  to 
you,”  he  continued,  perceiving  that  the  general 
attention  was  directed  to  him,  “yet,  if  you  con¬ 
sent  to  listen  to  a  short  story,  you  may  possibly 
see  that  I  was  right  in  uttering  them.  Every 
thing  assures  me  that  this  is  the  portrait  which 
I  am  looking  for.” 

A  very  natural  curiosity  illumined  the  faces 
of  nearly  all ;  and  even  the  auctioneer  paused 
as  he  was  opening  his  mouth,  and  with  hammer 


THE  PORTRAIT 


28l 


uplifted  in  the  air,  prepared  to  listen.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  story,  many  glanced  involun¬ 
tarily  towards  the  portrait ;  but  later  on,  all 
bent  their  attention  solely  on  the  narrator,  as 
his  tale  grew  gradually  more  absorbing. 

“  You  know  that  portion  of  the  city  which  is 
called  Kolomna/’  he  began.  “There  every  thing 
is  unlike  any  thing  else  in  Petersburg :  there 
it  is  neither  capital  nor  provinces.  It  seems, 
you  know,  when  you  traverse  those  streets, 
as  though  all  youthful  desires  and  impulses 
deserted  you.  Thither  the  future  never  comes, 
all  is  peace  and  desolation,  all  that  has  fallen 
away  from  the  movement  of  the  capital.  Retired 
tchinovniks  1  remove  thither  to  live  ;  widows  ; 
people  not  very  well  off,  who  have  acquaintance 
in  the  senate,  and  therefore  condemn  them¬ 
selves  to  this  for  nearly  the  whole  of  their  lives  ; 
retired  cooks,  who  gossip  all  day  at  the  markets, 
talk  nonsense  with  the  muzhiks  in  the  petty 
shops,  purchasing  each  day  five  kopeks’  worth 
of  coffee,  and  four  of  sugar ;  and,  in  short,  that 
whole  list  of  people  who  can  be  described  by 
the  one  word  ash-colored ,  —  people  whose  gar- 


1  Officials. 


28  2 


THE  PORTRAIT 


ments,  faces,  hair,  eyes,  have  a  sort  of  troubled, 
ashy  surface,  like  a  day  when  there  is  in  the 
sky  neither  cloud  nor  sun,  but  it  is  simply 
neither  one  thing  nor  the  other:  the  mist  set¬ 
tles  down,  and  robs  every  object  of  its  distinct¬ 
ness.  Among  them  may  be  reckoned  retired 
theatrical  servants,  retired  titular  councillors, 
retired  sons  of  Mars,  with  ruined  eyes  and 
swollen  lips.  These  people  are  utterly  pas¬ 
sionless.  They  walk  along  without  glancing  at 
any  thing,  and  maintain  silence  without  think¬ 
ing  of  any  thing.  There  are  not  many  posses¬ 
sions  in  their  chambers,  —  sometimes  merely  a 
stoup  of  pure  Russian  vodka,  which  they  absorb 
monotonously  all  day  long,  without  its  having 
any  marked  tendency  to  affect  their  heads, 
caused  by  a  strong  dose  such  as  the  young 
German  mechanic  loves  to  treat  himself  to  on 
Sundays,  —  that  bully  of  Myeshtchanskaya 
Street,  sole  controller  of  all  the  sidewalks 
after  twelve  o’clock  at  night. 

“  Life  in  Kolomna  is  terribly  lonely:  rarely 
does  a  carriage  appear,  except,  perhaps,  one 
containing  an  actor,  which  disturbs  the  univer¬ 
sal  stillness  by  its  rumble,  noise,  and  jingling. 


THE  PORTRAIT 


283 


There  all  are  —  pedestrians:  the  izvoshtchik 
frequently  loiters  along,  carrying  hay  for  his 
shaggy  little  horse.  You  can  get  lodgings  for 
.five  rubles  a  month,  coffee  in  the  morning  in¬ 
cluded.  Widows  with  pensions  are  the  most 
aristocratic  families  there ;  they  conduct  them¬ 
selves  well,  sweep  their  rooms  often,  chatter 
with  their  friends  about  the  dearness  of  beef 
and  cabbage ;  they  frequently  have  a  young 
daughter,  —  a  taciturn,  quiet,  sometimes  pretty 
creature,  —  an  ugly  little  dog,  and  wall-clocks 
which  strike  in  a  melancholy  fashion.  Then 
come  the  actors  whose  salaries  do  not  permit 
them  to  desert  Kolomna,  an  independent  folk, 
living,  like  all  artists,  for  pleasure.  They  sit 
in  their  dressing-gowns,  cleaning  their  pistols, 
glueing  together  all  sorts  of  things  out  of  card¬ 
board,  which  are  useful  about  a  house,  playing 
checkers  and  cards  with  any  friend  who  chances 
to  drop  in,  and  so  pass  away  the  morning,  doing 
pretty  nearly  the  same  in  the  evening,  with  the 
addition  of  punch  now  and  then.  After  these 
great  people  and  aristocracy  of  Kolomna,  come 
the  rank  and  file.  It  is  as  difficult  to  put  a 
name  to  them  as  to  number  the  multitude  of 


284 


THE  PORTRAIT 


insects  which  breed  in  stale  vinegar.  There 
are  old  women  who  get  drunk,  who  make  a  liv¬ 
ing  by  incomprehensible  means,  like  ants,  drag 
old  clothes  and  rags  from  the  Kalinkin  Bridge 
to  the  old-clothes  mart,  in  order  to  sell  them 
there  for  fifteen  kopeks,  —  in  a  word,  the  very 
dregs  of  mankind,  whose  condition  no  benefi¬ 
cent,  political  economist  has  devised  any  means 
of  ameliorating. 

“  I  have  enumerated  them  in  order  to  show  you 
how  often  such  people  find  themselves  under 
the  necessity  of  seeking  immediate  temporary 
assistance,  of  having  recourse  to  borrowing ; 
and  there  settles  among  them  a  peculiar  race  of 
money-lenders  who  lend  small  sums  on  security 
at  an  enormous  percentage.  These  petty  usu¬ 
rers  are  sometimes  more  heartless  than  the 
great  ones,  because  they  penetrate  into  the 
midst  of  poverty,  and  sharply  displayed  beg¬ 
garly  rags,  which  the  rich  usurer,  who  has  deal¬ 
ings  only  with  carriage-customers,  never  sees, 
—  and  because  every  feeling  of  humanity,  too, 
soon  dies  within  them.  Among  these  usurers 
was  a  certain  .  .  .  but  I  must  not  omit  to  men¬ 
tion  that  the  occurrence  which  I  have  under- 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


285 


taken  to  relate,  refers  to  the  last  century ; 
namely,  to  the  reign  of  our  late  Empress 
Ekaterina  the  Second.  You  will  understand 
that  the  very  appearance  and  life  of  Kolomna 
must  have  changed  materially.  So,  among 
the  usurers  was  a  certain  person,  —  an  extraor¬ 
dinary  being  in  every  respect,  who  had  settled 
in  that  quarter  of  the  city  long  before.  He 
went  about  in  voluminous  Asiatic  attire;  his 
dark  complexion  pointed  to  a  Southern  origin ; 
but  to  what  particular  nation  he  belonged,  — 
India,  Greece,  or  Persia,  —  no  one  could  say 
with  certainty.  Of  tall,  almost  colossal  stature, 
with  dark,  thin,  glowing  face,  and  an  indescrib¬ 
ably  strange  color  in  his  large  eyes  of  unwonted 
fire,  with  heavy,  overhanging  brows,  he  differed 
sharply  and  strongly  from  all  the  ash-colored 
denizens  of  the  capital. 

“  His  very  dwelling  was  unlike  the  other  small 
wooden  houses.  It  was  of  stone,  in  the  style  of 
those  formerly  much  affected  by  Genoese  mer¬ 
chants,  with  irregular  windows  of  various  sizes, 
with  iron  shutters  and  bars.  This  usurer  dif¬ 
fered  from  other  usurers  also  in  that  he  could 
furnish  any  required  sum,  from  that  desired  by 


286 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


the  poor  old  beggar-woman  to  that  demanded 
by  the  extravagant  court  grandee.  The  most 
gorgeous  equipages  often  showed  themselves 
in  front  of  his  house,  and  from  their  windows 
sometimes  peeped  forth  the  head  of  an  elegant 
lady  of  society.  Rumor,  as  usual,  reported  that 
his  iron  coffers  were  full  of  untold  gold,  treas¬ 
ures,  diamonds,  and  all  sorts  of  pledges,  but 
that,  nevertheless,  he  was  not  the  slave  of  that 
avarice  which  is  characteristic  of  other  usurers. 
He  lent  money  willingly,  stipulating  very  favor¬ 
able  terms  of  payment,  so  it  appeared,  but,  by 
some  curious  method  of  reckoning,  made  them 
amount  to  an  incredible  percentage.  So  said 
rumor,  at  least.  But  what  was  strangest  of 
all,  and  could  not  fail  to  strike  many,  was  the 
peculiar  fate  of  all  who  received  money  from 
him :  all  ended  their  lives  in  some  unhappy 
way.  Whether  this  was  simply  the  popular 
opinion,  stupid,  superstitious  rumors,  or  reports 
circulated  with  an  object,  is  not  known.  But 
several  instances  which  happened  within  a  brief 
space  of  time  before  the  eyes  of  all,  were  vivid 
and  striking. 

“  Among  the  aristocracy  of  that  day,  the  one 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


287 


who  speedily  attracted  to  himself  the  eyes  of 
all  was  a  young  man  of  one  of  the  best  families, 
distinguished  also  in  his  early  years  in  court- 
circles,  a  warm  admirer  of  all  true  and  noble 
things,  zealous  for  all  which  art  or  the  mind  of 
man  produced,  and  giving  promise  of  becoming 
a  Maecenas.  He  was  soon  deservedly  distin¬ 
guished  by  the  Empress,  who  conferred  upon 
him  an  important  post,  fully  proportioned  to  his 
desires, — a  post  in  which  he  could  accomplish 
much  for  science  and  the  general  welfare.  The 
youthful  dignitary  surrounded  himself  with  ar¬ 
tists,  poets,  and  learned  men.  He  wished  to 
give  work  to  all,  to  encourage  all.  He  under¬ 
took,  at  his  own  expense,  a  number  of  useful 
publications ;  gave  many  orders ;  proclaimed 
many  prizes  for  the  encouragement  of  different 
arts ;  spent  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  finally 
ruined  himself.  But,  full  of  noble  impulses,  he 
did  not  wish  to  relinquish  his  work,  sought  a  loan 
everywhere,  and  finally  betook  himself  to  the 
well-known  usurer.  Having  effected  a  consid¬ 
erable  loan  from  him,  the  man  changed  com¬ 
pletely  in  a  short  time  :  he  became  a  persecutor 
and  oppressor  of  budding  talent  and  intellect. 


288 


TIIE  PORTRAIT 


He  saw  the  bad  side  in  every  publication,  and 
every  word  he  uttered  was  false.  Then,  unfor¬ 
tunately,  came  the  French  Revolution.  This 
furnished  him  with  an  excuse  for  every  sort  of 
suspicion.  He  began  to  discover  a  revolution¬ 
ary  tendency  in  every  thing :  he  encountered 
hints  in  every  thing.  He  became  suspicious  to 
such  a  degree,  that  he  began,  finally,  to  suspect 
himself ;  began  to  concoct  terrible  and  unjust 
accusations,  made  scores  of  people  unhappy. 
Of  course,  such  conduct  could  not  fail,  in  time, 
to  reach  the  throne.  The  kind-hearted  Empress 
was  shocked ;  and,  full  of  the  noble  spirit  which 
adorns  crowned  heads,  she  uttered  words  which, 
although  they  could  not  descend  to  us  in  all 
their  sharpness,  have  yet  preserved  the  memory 
of  their  deepest  meaning  engraven  on  many 
hearts.  The  Empress  remarked,  that  not  under 
a  monarchical  government  were  the  high  and 
noble  impulses  of  souls  persecuted ;  not  there 
were  the  creations  of  intellect,  poetry,  and  art 
contemned  and  oppressed  ;  that,  on  the  other 
hand,  monarchs  alone  were  their  protectors ; 
that  Shakspeare  and  Moliere  flourished  under 
their  magnanimous  protection,  while  Dante 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


289 


could  not  find  a  corner  in  his  republican  birth¬ 
place  ;  that  true  geniuses  arise  in  the  period  of 
brilliancy  and  power  of  emperors  and  empires, 
but  not  in  the  time  of  monstrous  political  ap¬ 
paritions  and  republican  terrorism,  which,  up 
to  that  time,  had  never  given  to  the  world  a 
single  poet ;  that  poet-artists  should  be  marked 
out  for  favor,  for  peace,  and  divine  quiet  alone 
compose  their  minds,  not  excitement  and  tu¬ 
mult  ;  that  learned  men,  poets,  and  all  produ¬ 
cers  of  art,  are  the  pearls  and  diamonds  in  the 
imperial  crown  :  by  them  is  the  epoch  of  the 
great  ruler  adorned,  and  from  them  it  receives 
yet  greater  brilliancy.  In  a  word,  when  the  Em¬ 
press  uttered  these  words,  she  was  divinely 
beautiful  for  the  moment.  I  remember  old  men 
who  could  not  speak  of  it  without  tears.  All 
were  interested  in  the  affair.  It  must  be  re¬ 
marked,  to  the  honor  of  our  national  pride,  that 
in  the  Russian’s  heart  there  always  beats  a  fine 
feeling  that  he  must  adopt  the  part  of  the  per¬ 
secuted.  The  dignitary  who  had  betrayed  his 
trust  was  punished  in  an  exemplary  manner, 
and  degraded  from  his  post.  But  he  read  a 
much  more  dreadful  punishment  in  the  faces  of 


290 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


his  fellow-countrymen :  this  was  a  sharp  and 
universal  scorn.  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
what  that  vain-glorious  soul  suffered :  pride, 
betrayed  self-love,  ruined  hopes,  all  united, 
and  he  died  in  a  terrible  attack  of  raving  mad¬ 
ness. 

“  Another  striking  example  occurred  also  in 
view  of  all :  among  the  beauties  in  which  our 
Northern  capital  is  assuredly  not  poor,  one  de¬ 
cidedly  surpassed  all  the  rest.  Her  loveliness 
was  a  combination  of  our  Northern  charms  with 
the  charms  of  the  South,  —  a  brilliant  such  as 
rarely  makes  its  appearance  on  earth.  My 
father  admitted  that  he  had  never  beheld  any 
thing  like  it  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life. 
Every  thing  seemed  to  be  united  in  her, — 
wealth,  intellect,  and  spiritual  charms.  She 
had  throngs  of  admirers  ;  and  the  most  distin¬ 
guished  of  them  all  was  Prince  R.,  the  most 
noble-minded,  the  best,  of  all  young  men,  the 
finest  in  face,  and  in  his  magnanimous  and 
knightly  sentiments  the  grand  ideal  of  romance 
and  women,  a  Grandison  in  every  acceptation 
of  the  term.  Prince  R.  was  passionately  and 
desperately  in  love  :  he  was  requited  by  a  like 


THE  PORTRAIT 


291 


ardent  passion.  But  the  match  seemed  un¬ 
equal  to  the  parents.  The  prince’s  family 
estates  had  not  been  in  his  possession  for  a 
long  time,  his  family  was  out  of  favor,  and  the 
sad  state  of  his  affairs  was  well  known  to  all. 
Of  a  sudden  the  prince  quitted  the  capital,  as 
if  for  the  purpose  of  arranging  his  affairs,  and 
after  a  short  interval  re-appeared,  surrounded 
with  luxury  and  incredible  splendor.  Brilliant 

1 

balls  and  parties  made  him  known  at  court. 
The  beauty’s  father  began  to  relent,  and  a  most 
interesting  wedding  took  place  in  the  city. 
Whence  this  change  in  circumstances,  this  un¬ 
heard-of  wealth  of  the  bridegroom,  came,  no 
one  could  fully  explain  ;  but  it  was  whispered 
that  he  had  entered  into  a  compact  with  the 
mysterious  usurer,  and  had  borrowed  money  of 
him.  However  that  may  have  been,  the  wed¬ 
ding  was  a  source  of  interest  to  the  whole  city, 
and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  were  the  objects 
of  general  envy.  Every  one  knew  of  their 
warm  and  faithful  love,  the  long  persecution  . 
they  had  had  to  endure  from  every  quarter,  the 
great  personal  worth  of  both.  Ardent  women 
at  once  sketched  out  the  heavenly  bliss  which 


292 


THE  PORTRAIT 


the  young  couple  would  enjoy.  But  it  turned 
out  very  differently. 

“  In  the  course  of  a  year  a  frightful  change 
came  over  the  husband.  His  character,  up  to 
that  time  so  fine  and  noble,  became  poisoned 
with  jealous  suspicions,  irritability,  and  inex¬ 
haustible  caprices.  He  became  a  tyrant  and  per¬ 
secutor  to  his  wife,  —  something  which  no  one 
could  have  foreseen,  —  and  indulged  in  the  most 
inhuman  deeds,  even  in  blows.  In  a  year’s 
time,  no  one  would  have  recognized  the  woman 
who  such  a  little  while  before  had  shone,  and 
drawn  about  her  throngs  of  submissive  adorers. 
Finally,  no  longer  able  to  endure  her  heavy  lot, 
she  proposed  a  divorce.  Her  husband  flew 
into  a  rage  at  the  very  suggestion.  In  the  first 
burst  of  passion,  he  chased  her  about  the  room 
with  a  knife,  and  would  doubtless  have  mur¬ 
dered  her  then  and  there,  if  they  had  not 
seized  him  and  prevented  him.  In  a  burst  of 
madness  and  despair  he  turned  the  knife 
against  himself,  and  ended  his  life  amid  the 
most  horrible  sufferings. 

“  Besides  these  two  instances  which  occurred 
before  the  eyes  of  all  the  world,  stories  circu- 


THE  FOR  TEA  IT. 


293 


lated  of  a  great  number  which  took  place 
among  the  lower  classes,  nearly  all  of  which 
had  tragic  endings.  Here  an  honest,  sober 
man  became  a  drunkard  ;  there  a  shop-keeper’s 
clerk  robbed  his  master;  again,  an  izvoshtchik 
who  had  conducted  himself  properly  for  a  num¬ 
ber  of  years,  cut  his  passenger’s  throat  for  a 
groschen.  It  was  impossible  that  such  occur¬ 
rences,  related,  too,  sometimes  not  without 
embellishments,  should  not  inspire  a  sort  of 
involuntary  horror  in  the  sedate  inhabitants  of 
Kolomna.  No  one  cherished  any  doubt  as  to 
the  presence  of  an  evil  power  in  this  man. 
They  said  that  he  imposed  conditions  which 
made  the  hair  rise  on  one’s  head,  and  which 
the  miserable  wretch  never  afterward  dared 
reveal  to  any  other  being;  that  his  money  pos¬ 
sessed  a  power  of  attraction  ;  that  it  grew  hot 
of  itself,  and  that  it  bore  strange  marks.  .  .  . 
In  short,  many  were  the  silly  stories  in  circula¬ 
tion.  And  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  all  this 
colony  of  Kolomna,  this  whole  race  of  poor  old 
women,  petty  officials,  petty  artists,  and,  in  a 
word,  all  the  insignificant  people  whom  we 
have  just  recapitulated,  agreed  that  it  was 


294 


THE  TOR  TRAIT. 


better  to  endure  any  thing,  and  to  suffer  the  ex¬ 
treme  of  misery,  rather  than  to  have  recourse 
to  the  terrible  usurer:  old  women  were  even 
found  dying  of  hunger,  who  preferred  to  kill 
their  bodies  rather  than  lose  their  souls.  Those 
who  met  him  in  the  street  felt  an  involuntary 
fear.  Pedestrians  took  care  to  turn  aside  from 
his  path,  and  gazed  long  after  the  extremely 
tall,  receding  figure.  In  his  face  alone,  there 
was  enough  that  was  uncommon  to  cause  any 
one  to  ascribe  to  him  a  supernatural  nature. 
The  strong  features,  so  deeply  chiselled,  not 
seen  in  many  men ;  the  glowing  bronze  of  his 
complexion;  the  incredible  thickness  of  his 
brows  ;  the  intolerable,  terrible  eyes ;  even  the 
wide  folds  of  his  Asiatic  garment,  —  every  thing 
seemed  to  indicate  that  all  passions  of  other 
people  were  pale  compared  to  the  passions 
raging  in  that  body.  My  father  stopped  short 
every  time  he  met  him,  and  could  not  refrain 
each  time  from  saying,  ‘A  devil,  a  perfect 
devil !  ’  But  I  must  introduce  you  as  speedily 
as  possible  to  my  father,  who,  with  others,  is 

the  chief  character  in  this  story. 

<<  My  father  was  a  remarkable  man  in  many 


THE  PORTRAIT 


295 


respects.  He  was  an  artist  of  rare  ability,  a 
self-taught  artist,  seeking  in  his  own  soul,  with¬ 
out  teachers  or  schools,  principles  and  rules, 
carried  away  only  by  the  thirst  for  perfection, 
and  treading  a  path  indicated  by  his  own  in¬ 
stincts,  for  reasons  unknown,  perchance,  even 
to  himself, — one  of  those  natural  marvels  whom 
their  contemporaries  often  honor  with  the  in¬ 
sulting  title  of  fools ,  and  who  are  chilled 
neither  by  blame  nor  their  own  lack  of  success, 
who  gain  only  fresh  vigor,  and,  in  their  own 
minds,  have  gone  far  beyond  those  works  on 
account  of  which  they  have  received  the  name 
of  fools.  Through  some  lofty  and  secret  instinct 
he  perceived  the  presence  of  a  soul  in  every  ob¬ 
ject  ;  he  embraced,  by  his  unaided  mind,  the  true 
significance  of  the  words,  historical  painting ; 
he  comprehended  why  a  simple  head,  a  simple 
portrait  by  Raphael,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Titian, 
Correggio,  can  be  considered  an  historical  paint¬ 
ing,  and  why  a  huge  picture  with  historical  sub¬ 
ject  remains,  nevertheless,  a  genre  picture,  in 
spite  of  all  the  artist’s  pretensions  to  historical 
painting.  And  this  secret  instinct  and  per¬ 
sonal  conviction  turned  his  brush  to  Christian 


296 


THE  PORTRAIT, 


subjects,  grand  and  lofty  to  the  last  degree. 
He  had  none  of  the  vanity  or  irritability  so  insep¬ 
arable  from  the  character  of  many  artists.  His 
was  a  strong  character:  he  was  an  honorable, 
upright,  even  rough  man,  covered  with  a  sort  of 
hard  rind  without,  not  entirely  lacking  in  pride, 
and  given  to  expressing  himself  both  sharply 
and  scornfully  about  people.  4  What  are  they 
looking  at  ?  ’  he  generally  said.  4 1  am  not 
working  for  them.  I  don’t  carry  my  pictures  to 
the  tavern.  He  who  understands  me  is  grate¬ 
ful.  The  man  of  the  world  is  not  to  blame 
that  he  understands  nothing  about  painting  ;  but 
he  does  understand  cards,  and  he  knows  good 
wine  and  horses  ;  —  why  should  a  gentleman 
know  more  ?  Observe,  if  you  please,  how  he 
tries  one,  and  then  another,  and  then  begins  to 
consider,  when  his  living  does  not  depend  upon 
it.  Let  every  man  attend  to  his  own  affairs. 
To  my  mind,  that  man  is  the  best  of  all  who 
says  frankly  that  he  does  not  understand  a 
thing,  rather  than  the  man  who  pretends,  talks 
as  though  he  knew  a  thing  he  does  not  know, 
and  is  simply  disgusting  and  intolerable.’  He 
worked  for  very  small  pay ;  that  is  to  say,  for 


THE  PORTRAIT 


297 


just  enough  to  support  his  family,  and  obtain 
the  tools  to  work  with.  Moreover,  he  never, 
under  any  circumstances,  refused  to  aid  any 
one,  or  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  a  poor  artist : 
he  believed  with  the  simple,  reverent  faith  of 
his  ancestors  ;  and  from  that  cause,  it  may  be, 
that  noble  expression  which  even  brilliant 
talents  cannot  acquire,  showed  itself  in  the 
faces  he  painted.  At  length,  by  his  unintermit¬ 
ting  labor,  and  perseverance  in  the  path  he  had 
marked  out  for  himself,  he  began  to  win  the 
approbation  of  those  who  honored  his  folly  and 
his  self-taught  talent.  They  gave  him  constant 
orders  for  churches,  and  he  never  lacked  em¬ 
ployment.  One  of  his  paintings  possessed  a 
strong  interest  for  him.  I  no  longer  recall  the 
precise  subject :  I  only  know  that  he  needed  to 
represent  the  Spirit  of  Darkness  in  it.  He 
pondered  long  what  form  to  give  him  :  he 
wished  to  concentrate  in  his  face  all  that  weighs 
down  and  oppresses  a  man.  In  the  midst  of 
his  meditations,  there  suddenly  occurred  to  his 
mind  the  image  of  the  mysterious  usurer  ;  and 
he  thought  involuntarily,  ‘  That’s  what  I  ought 
to  paint  for  the  Devil  !  ’  Imagine  his  amaze- 


298 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


ment  when  one  day,  as  he  was  at  work  in  his 
studio,  he  heard  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
directly  after  there  entered  that  very  same  ter¬ 
rible  usurer.  He  could  not  repress  an  inward 

shudder,  which  involuntarily  traversed  every 
limb. 

You  are  an  artist  ?  ’  he  said  to  my  father 
abruptly. 

‘“I  am,’  answered  my  father  in  surprise, 
waiting  for  what  should  come  next. 

‘Good!  Paint  my  portrait.  I  may  possibly 
die  soon.  I  have  no  children ;  but  I  do  not 
wish  to  die  completely,  I  wish  to  live.  Can 

you  paint  a  portrait  that  shall  be  as  though  it 
lived  ?  ’ 

“  My  father  reflected,  ‘  What  could  be  better  ? 
he  offers  himself  for  the  Devil  in  my  picture.’ 
He  promised.  They  agreed  upon  a  time  and 
price ,  and  the  next  day  my  father  took  palette 
and  brushes,  and  went  to  his  house.  The 
lofty  court-yard,  dogs,  iron  doors  and  locks, 
arched  windows,  coffers  draped  with  strange 
covers,  and,  last  of  all,  the  remarkable  owner 
himself,  seated  motionless  before  him,  all  pro¬ 
duced  a  strange  impression  on  him.  The 


THE  PORTRAIT 


299 


Wffdows  seemed  intentionally  barred,  and  so 
encumbered  below  that  they  admitted  the  light 
only  from  the  top.  ‘  Devil  take  him,  how  well 
his  face  is  lighted  !  ’  he  said  to  himself,  and 
began  to  paint  assiduously,  as  though  afraid 
that  the  favorable  light  would  disappear. 
*  What  strength !  ’  he  repeated  to  himself. 
4  If  I  make  half  a  likeness  of  him,  as  he  is  just 
now,  it  will  surpass  all  my  other  works  :  he  will 
simply  start  from  the  canvas  if  I  am  only 
partly  true  to  nature.  What  remarkable  fea¬ 
tures  !  *  he  kept  repeating,  redoubling  his 
energy  ;  and  he  began  himself  to  see  how  some 
traits  were  making  their  appearance  on  the  can¬ 
vas.  But  the  more  closely  he  approached  him, 
the  more  conscious  he  became  of  an  aggres¬ 
sive,  uneasy  feeling,  which  he  could  not  explain 
to  himself.  But,  notwithstanding  this,  he  set 
himself  to  copy  with  literal  accuracy  every 
slightest  trait  and  expression.  First  of  all, 
however,  he  busied  himself  with  the  eyes. 
There  was  so  much  force  in  those  eyes,  that  it 
seemed  impossible  to  reproduce  them  exactly 
as  they  were  in  nature.  But  he  resolved,  at 
any  price,  to  seek  in  them  the  most  minute 


300 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


characteristics  and  shades,  to  penetrate  nWB 
secret.  .  .  .  But  as  soon  as  he  approached 
them,  and  began  to  redouble  his  exertions,  there 
sprang  up  in  his  mind  such  a  terrible  feeling  of 
repulsion,  of  inexplicable  oppression,  that  he 
was  forced  to  lay  aside  his  brush  for  a  while, 
and  begin  anew.  At  last  he  could  bear  it  no 
longer  :  he  felt  as  if  those  eyes  were  piercing 
into  his  soul,  and  causing  intolerable  emotion. 
On  the  second  and  third  days  this  became  still 
stronger.  It  became  horrible  to  him.  He 
threw  down  his  brush,  and  declared  abruptly 
that  he  could  paint  him  no  longer.  You 
should  have  seen  how  the  terrible  usurer 
changed  countenance  at  these  words.  He 
threw  himself  at  his  feet,  and  besought  him  to 
finish  the  portrait,  saying  that  his  fate  and  his 
existence  in  the  world  depended  on  it ;  that  he 
had  already  caught  his  prominent  features  ; 
that  if  he  could  reproduce  them  accurately,  his 
life  would  be  preserved  in  his  portrait,  in  a 
supernatural  manner;  that  by  that  means  he 
would  not  die  completely;  that  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  continue  to  exist  in  the  world. 

“  My  father  was  frightened  by  these  words  : 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


301 


they  seemed  to  him  strange  and  terrible  to  such 
a  degree,  that  he  threw  down  his  brushes  and 
palette,  and  rushed  headlong  from  the  room. 

“  The  memory  of  it  troubled  him  all  day  and 
all  night ;  but  the  next  morning  he  received 
the  portrait  from  the  usurer,  brought  by  a 
woman  who  was  the  only  creature  in  his  ser¬ 
vice,  who  announced  that  her  master  did  not 
want  the  portrait,  would  pay  nothing  for  it,  and 
had  sent  it  back.  On  the  evening  of  the  same  / 
day  he  learned  that  the  usurer  was  dead,  and 
that  preparations  were  in  progress  to  bury  him 
according  to  the  rites  of  his  religion.  All  this 
seemed  to  him  inexplicably  strange.  But  from 
that  day  a  marked  change  showed  itself  in  his 
character.  He  was  possessed  by  a  troubled, 
uneasy  feeling,  of  which  he  was  unable  to  ex¬ 
plain  the  cause  ;  and  he  soon  committed  a  deed 
which  no  one  could  have  expected  of  him. 
For  some  time  the  works  of  one  of  his  pupils 
had  been  attracting  the  attention  of  a  small 
circle  of  connoisseurs  and  amateurs.  My  father 
had  perceived  his  talent,  and  manifested  a  par¬ 
ticular  liking  for  him  in  consequence.  Sud¬ 
denly  he  became  envious  of  him.  The  general 


302 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


interest  in  him  and  talk  about  him  became  un¬ 
endurable  to  my  father.  Finally,  to  complete 
his  vexation,  he  learned  that  his  pupil  had  been 
asked  to  paint  a  picture  for  a  recently  built  and 
wealthy  church.  This  enraged  him.  ‘  No,  I 
will  not  permit  that  fledgling  to  triumph  ! ’  said 
he  :  ‘it  is  early,  friend,  to  think  of  consigning 
the  old  men  to  the  gutters.  I  still  have  powers, 
God  be  praised  !  We’ll  soon  see  which  will 
put  down  the  other.’  And  the  straightforward, 
honorable  man  employed  intrigues  and  plots 
which  he  had  hitherto  abhorred.  He  finally 
contrived  that  there  should  be  a  competition  for 
the  picture  which  other  artists  were  permitted 
to  enter  into  with  their  works.  Then  he  shut 
himself  up  in  his  room,  and  grasped  his  brush 
with  zeal.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  striving  to 
summon  all  his  strength  for  this  occasion. 
And,  in  fact,  it  turned  out  to  be  one  of  his  best 
works.  No  one  doubted  that  he  would  bear  off 
the  palm.  The  pictures  were  placed  on  exhibi¬ 
tion,  and  all  the  others  seemed  to  his  as  night 
to  day.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  one  of  the  mem¬ 
bers  present,  an  ecclesiastical  personage  if  I 
mistake  not,  made  a  remark  which  surprised 


THE  PORTRAIT 


303 


every  one.  ‘There  is  certainly  much  talent  in 
this  artist’s  picture/  said  he,  ‘but  no  holiness 
in  the  faces  :  there  is  even,  on  the  contrary,  a 
sort  of  demoniacal  look  in  the  eyes,  as  though 
some  evil  feeling  had  guided  the  artist’s  hand.’ 
All  looked,  and  could  not  but  acknowledge  the 
truth  of  the  words.  My  father  rushed  forward 
to  his  picture,  as  though  to  verify  for  himself 
this  offensive  remark,  and  perceived  with  hor¬ 
ror  that  he  had  bestowed  the  usurer’s  eyes 
upon  nearly  all  the  figures.  They  had  such  an 
annihilatingly  diabolical  gaze,  that  he  involunta¬ 
rily  shuddered.  The  picture  was  rejected  ;  and 
he  was  forced  to  hear,  to  his  indescribable  vex¬ 
ation,  that  the  palm  was  awarded  to  his  pupil. 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  state  of  rage  in 
which  he  returned  home.  He  almost  killed  my 
mother,  he  drove  the  children  away,  broke  his 
brushes  and  easels,  tore  down  the  usurer’s  por¬ 
trait  from  the  wall,  demanded  a  knife,  and 
ordered  a  fire  built  in  the  chimney,  intending 
to  cut  it  in  pieces  and  burn  it.  A  friend,  an 
artist,  caught  him  in  the  act  as  he  entered  the 
room,  —  a  jolly  fellow,  like  my  father,  always 
satisfied  with  himself,  inflated  by  no  unattain- 


304 


THE  PORTRAIT 


able  wishes,  doing  daily  any  thing  that  came  to 
hand,  and  taking  still  more  gayly  to  his  dinner 
and  little  carouses. 

“  ‘  What  are  you  doing  ?  What  are  you  pre¬ 
paring  to  burn  ?  ’  he  asked,  and  stepped  up  to 
the  portrait.  ‘Why,  this  is  one  of  your  very 
best  works.  This  is  the  usurer  who  died  a  short 
time  ago  :  yes,  it  is  a  most  perfect  thing.  You 
did  not  stop  until  you  had  got  into  his  very  eyes. 
Never  in  life  did  eyes  look  as  these  of  yours  do 
now.’ 

“‘Well,  I’ll  see  how  they  look  in  the  fire!’ 
said  my  father,  making  a  movement  to  fling  the 
portrait  into  the  grate. 

“  ‘  Stop,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  ’  exclaimed  his 
’  friend,  restraining  him:  ‘give  it  to  me,  rather, 
if  it  offends  your  eyes  to  such  a  degree.’  My 
father  began  to  insist,  but  yielded  at  length  ; 
and  the  jolly  fellow,  well  pleased  with  his  acqui¬ 
sition,  carried  the  portrait  home  with  him. 

“When  he  was  gone,  my  father  felt  more  calm. 
The  burden  seemed  to  have  disappeared  from 
his  soul  together  with  the  portrait.  He  was  sur¬ 
prised  himself  at  his  evil  feelings,  his  envy,  and 
the  evident  change  in  his  character.  Reviewing 


THE  PORTRAIT 


305 


his  acts,  he  became  sad  at  heart ;  and  not  with¬ 
out  inward  sorrow  did  he  exclaim,  ‘No,  it  was 
God  who  punished  me !  my  picture,  in  fact, 
brought  disgrace.  It  was  meant  to  ruin  my 
brother-man.  A  devilish  feeling  of  envy  guided 
my  brush,  and  that  devilish  feeling  must  have 
made  itself  visible  in  it.’  He  set  out  at  once 
to  seek  his  former  pupil,  embraced  him  warmly, 
begged  his  forgiveness,  and  endeavored  as  far 
as  possible  to  excuse  his  own  fault.  His  labors 
continued,  as  before,  undisturbed;  but  his  face 
more  frequently  was  thoughtful.  He  prayed 
more,  grew  more  taciturn,  and  expressed  him¬ 
self  less  sharply  about  people  :  even  the  rough 
exterior  of  his  character  was  modified  to  some 
extent.  But  a  certain  occurrence  soon  dis¬ 
turbed  him  more  than  ever.  He  had  seen 
nothing  for  a  long  time  of  the  comrade  who  had 
begged  the  portrait  of  him.  He  had  already  de¬ 
cided  to  hunt  him  up,  when  the  latter  sudden¬ 
ly  made  his  appearance  in  his  room.  After  a 
few  words  and  questions  on  both  sides,  he  said, 
‘Well,  brother,  it  was  not  without  cause  that 
you  wished  to  burn  that  portrait.  Devil  take 
it,  there’s  something  horrible  about  it !  ...  I 


306 


THE  PORTRAIT 


don’t  believe  in  sorcerers;  blit,  begging  your 
pardon,  there’s  an  unclean  spirit  in  it.’  .  .  . 

“  ‘  How  so  ?  ’  asked  my  father. 

“‘Well,  from  the  very  moment  I  hung  it  up 
in  my  room,  I  felt  such  depression  .  .  .  just  as 
if  I  wanted  to  murder  some  one.  I  never  knew 
in  my  life  what  sleeplessness  was ;  but  now  I 
suffer  not  from  sleeplessness  alone,  but  from 
such  dreams!  ...  I  cannot  tell  whether  they 
are  dreams,  or  what ;  it  is  as  if  a  kobold  [domo- 
voi ]  were  strangling  one  :  and  the  old  man  ap¬ 
pears  to  me  in  my  sleep.  In  short,  I  can’t 
describe  my  state  of  mind.  I  never  had  any 
thing  of  the  sort  before.  I  have  been  wander¬ 
ing  about  miserably  all  the  time :  I  have  had  a 
sensation  of  fear,  of  expecting  something  un¬ 
pleasant.  I  have  felt  as  if  I  could  not  speak  a 
cheerful  or  sincere  word  to  any  one  :  it  is  just 
as  if  a  spy  were  sitting  over  me.  And  from 
the  very  hour  that  I  gave  that  portrait  to  my 
nephew,  who  asked  for  it,  I  felt  as  if  a  stone 
had  been  rolled  from  my  shoulders  :  I  immedi¬ 
ately  felt  cheerful,  as  you  see  me  now.  Well, 
brother,  you  made  the  very  Devil  !  ’ 

“During  this  recital,  my  father  listened  with 


3°7 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

I 

unswerving  attention,  and  finally  inquired, 
‘And  your  nephew  now  has  the  portrait?’ 

“  ‘  My  nephew,  indeed  !  he  could  not  stand 
it!’  said  the  jolly  fellow:  ‘do  you  know,  the 
soul  of  that  usurer  has  migrated  into  it;  he 
jumps  out  of  the  frame,  walks  about  the  room; 
and  what  my  nephew  tells  of  him  is  simply  in¬ 
comprehensible.  I  should  take  him  for  a  lu¬ 
natic,  if  I  had  not  undergone  a  part  of  it  myself. 
He  sold  it  to  some  collector  of  pictures  ;  and 
he  could  not  stand  it  either,  and  got  rid  of  it 
to  some  one  else.’ 

“  This  story  produced  a  deep  impression  on 
my  father.  He  became  seriously  pensive,  fell 
into  hypochondria,  and  finally  became  fully  con¬ 
vinced  that  his  brush  had  served  as  a  tool  of  the 
Devil ;  that  a  portion  of  the  usurer’s  life  had 
actually  passed  into  the  portrait,  and  was  now 
troubling  people,  inspiring  diabolical  excite¬ 
ment,  beguiling  painters  from  the  true  path, 
producing  the  fearful  torments  of  envy,  and  so 
forth,  and  so  forth.  Three  catastrophes  which 
occurred  afterwards,  three  sudden  deaths  of 
wife,  daughter,  and  infant  son,  he  regarded  as  a 
divine  punishment  on  him,  and  firmly  resolved 


3°8 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


to  leave  the  world.  As  soon  as  I  was  nine 
years  old,  he  placed  me  in  an  academy  of  paint¬ 
ing,  and,  paying  all  his  debts,  retired  to  a  lonely 
cloister,  where  he  soon  afterwards  took  the  vows. 
There  he  amazed  every  one  by  the  strictness  of 
his  life,  and  his  untiring  observance  of  all  the 
monastic  rules.  The  prior  of  the  monastery, 
hearing  of  his  skill  in  painting,  ordered  him  to 
paint  the  principal  ikon  in  the  church.  But  the 
humble  brother  said  plainly  that  he  was  un¬ 
worthy  to  touch  a  brush,  that  his  was  contam¬ 
inated,  that  with  toil  and  great  sacrifice  must 
he  first  purify  his  spirit  in  order  to  render  him¬ 
self  fit  to  undertake  such  a  task.  They  did  not 
care  to  force  him.  He  increased  the  rigors  of 
monastic  life  for  himself  as  much  as  possible. 
At  last,  even  it  became  insufficient,  and  not 
strict  enough  for  him.  He  retired,  with  the  ap¬ 
proval  of  the  prior,  into  the  desert,  in  order  to 
be  quite  alone.  There  he  constructed  for  him¬ 
self  a  cell  from  branches  of  trees,  ate  only  un¬ 
cooked  roots,  dragged  about  a  stone  from  place 
to  place,  stood  in  one  spot  with  his  hands  lifted 
to  heaven,  from  the  rising  until  the  going-down 
of  the  sun,  reciting  prayers  without  cessation  : 


THE  PORTRAIT 


309 


in  short,  he  underwent,  it  seemed,  every  possi¬ 
ble  degree  of  suffering  and  of  that  pitiless  self- 
abnegation,  of  which  instances  can  perhaps  be 
found  in  some  Lives  of  the  Saints.  In  this  man¬ 
ner  did  he  long  —  for  several  years  —  exhaust 
his  body,  invigorating  it,  at  the  same  time,  with 
the  strength  of  fervent  prayer.  At  length,  one 
day  he  came  to  the  cloister,  and  said  firmly  to 
the  prior,  ‘Now  I  am  ready.  If  God  wills,  I 
will  finish  my  task/  The  subject  he  selected 
was  the  Birth  of  Christ.  A  whole  year  he  sat 
over  it,  without  leaving  his  cell,  barely  sustain¬ 
ing  himself  with  coarse  food,  and  praying  inces¬ 
santly.  At  the  end  of  the  year  the  picture  was 
ready.  It  was  a  really  wonderful  work.  You 
must  know,  that  neither  prior  nor  brethren 
knew  much  about  painting;  but  all  were  struck 
with  the  marvellous  holiness  of  the  figures. 
The  expression  of  reverent  humility  and  gen¬ 
tleness  in  the  face  of  the  Holy  Mother,  as  she 
bent  over  the  Child  ;  the  deep  intelligence  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Holy  Child,  as  though  he  saw 
something  afar ;  the  triumphant  silence  of  the 
Magi,  amazed  by  the  Divine  Miracle,  as  they 
bowed  at  his  feet ;  and  finally,  the  indescribable 


3io 


THE  POE  TEA IT 


peace  which  informed  the  whole  picture,  —  all 
this  was  presented  with  such  even  strength  and 
powerful  beauty,  that  the  impression  it  made 
was  magical.  All  the  brethren  threw  them¬ 
selves  on  their  knees  before  the  new  ikon  ;  and 
the  prior,  deeply  affected,  exclaimed,  ‘No,  it  is 
impossible  for  any  artist,  with  the  assistance 
only  of  earthly  art,  to  produce  such  a  picture : 
a  holy,  divine  power  guided  thy  brush,  and  the 
blessing  of  Heaven  rested  upon  thy  labor!' 

“By  that  time  I  had  completed  my  education 
at  the  academy,  received  the  gold  medal,  and 
with  it  the  joyful  hope  of  a  journey  to  Italy, 
—  the  fairest  dream  of  a  twenty-year-old  artist. 
It  only  remained  for  me  to  take  leave  of  my 
father,  from  whom  I  had  been  separated  for 
twelve  years.  I  confess  that  even  his  image 
had  long  faded  from  my  memory.  I  had  heard 
somewhat  of  his  grim  saintliness,  and  rather 
expected  to  meet  a  hermit  of  rough  exterior,  a 
stranger  to  every  thing  in  the  world,  except  his 
cell  and  his  prayers,  worn  out,  dried  up,  by  eter¬ 
nal  fasting  and  penance.  But  how  great  was 
my  surprise,  when  a  handsome,  almost  divine, 
old  man  stood  before  me  !  And  no  traces  of 


THE  PORTRAIT 


3H 


exhaustion  were  visible  on  his  countenance  :  it 
beamed  with  the  light  of  a  heavenly  joy.  His 
beard,  white  as  snow,  and  his  thin,  almost  trans¬ 
parent  hair  of  the  same  silvery  hue,  fell  pic¬ 
turesquely  upon  his  breast,  and  upon  the  folds 
of  his  black  gown,  and  even  to  the  rope  with 
which  his  poor  monastic  garb  was  girded.  But 
most  surprising  to  me  of  all,  was  to  hear  from 
his  mouth  such  words  and  thoughts  about  art, 
as,  I  confess,  I  long  shall  bear  in  mind,  and  I 
sincerely  wish  that  all  my  comrades  would  do 
the  same. 

“ 4 1  expected  you,  my  son,’  he  said,  when  I 
approached  for  his  blessing.  ‘  The  path  awaits 
you,  in  which  your  life  is  henceforth  to  flow. 
Your  path  is  pure, — desert  it  not.  You  have 
talent :  talent  is  the  most  priceless  of  God’s 
gifts,  —  destroy  it  not.  Search  out,  learn  all 
you  see,  subject  all  things  to  your  brush  ;  but  in 
all,  see  that  you  find  the  hidden  soul,  and  most 
of  all,  strive  to  attain  to  the  grand  secret  of 
creation.  Blessed  is  the  elect  one,  who  masters 
that !  There  is  for  him,  no  mean  object  in  na¬ 
ture.  In  lowly  themes,  the  artist  creator  is  as 
great  as  in  great  ones :  in  the  despicable,  there 


312 


THE  PORTRAIT 


is  nothing  for  him  to  despise ;  for  the  glorious 
mind  of  the  creator  penetrates  it,  and  the  des¬ 
picable  has  received  a  lofty  significance,  for  it 
has  passed  through  the  purifying  fire  of  his 
mind.  An  intimation  of  God’s  heavenly  para¬ 
dise  is  contained  for  the  artist,  in  art,  and  by 
that  alone  is  it  higher  than  all  else.  But  by 
as  much  as  triumphant  rest  is  grander  than 
every  earthly  emotion  ;  by  as  much  as  the  angel, 
pure  in  the  innocence  of  its  bright  spirit,  is 
above  all  invisible  powers  and  the  proud  pas¬ 
sions  of  Satan,  —  by  just  so  much  is  the  lofty 
creation  of  art  higher  than  every  thing  else  on 
earth.  Sacrifice  every  thing  to  it,  and  love  it 
with  passion,  —  not  with  the  passion  breathing 
with  earthly  desire,  but  a  peaceful,  heavenly 
passion.  Without  it  a  man  is  not  capable  of 
elevating  himself  above  the  earth,  and  cannot 
produce  wondrous  sounds  of  soothing;  for  the 
grand  creations  of  art  descend  into  the  world 
in  order  to  soothe  and  reconcile  all.  It  cannot 
plant  discord  in  the  spirit,  but  ascends,  like  a 
resounding  prayer,  eternally  to  God.  But  there 
are  moments,  dark  moments  ...  he  paused, 
and  I  observed  that  his  bright  face  darkened,  as 


THE  PORTRAIT 


313 


though  some  cloud  crossed  it  for  a  moment. 
‘There  is  one  incident  of  my  life/  he  said. 

‘  (Jp  to  this  moment,  I  cannot  understand  what 
that  terrible  figure  was,  of  which  I  painted  a 
likeness.  It  was  certainly  some  diabolical  ap¬ 
parition.  I  know  that  the  world  denies  the  ex¬ 
istence  of  the  Devil,  and  therefore  I  will  not 
speak  of  him.  I  will  only  say  that  I  painted 
him  with  repugnance  :  I  felt  no  liking  for  my 
work,  even  at  the  time.  I  tried  to  force  myself, 
and,  stifling  every  emotion  in  a  hard-hearted 
way,  to  be  true  to  nature.  It  was  not  a  crea-^ 
tion  of  art :  and  therefore  the  feelings  which 
overpower  every  one  who  looks  at  it,  are  feel¬ 
ings  of  repulsion,  disturbing  emotions,  not  the 
feelings  of  an  artist ;  for  an  artist  infuses  peace 
into  commotion.  I  have  been  informed  that 
this  portrait  is  passing  from  hand  to  hand,  and 
sowing  unpleasant  impressions,  inspiring  artists 
with  feelings  of  envy,  of  dark  hatred  towards 
their  brethren,  with  malicious  thirst  for  perse¬ 
cution  and  oppression.  May  the  Almighty  pre¬ 
serve  you  from  such  passions !  There  is  nothing 
more  terrible.  It  is  better  to  endure  the  bitter¬ 
ness  of  all  possible  persecution  than  to  subject 


3T4 


THE  PORTRAIT 


any  one  to  even  the  shadow  of  persecution. 
Preserve  the  purity  of  your  mind.  He  who 

u  %. 

possesses  talent  should  be  purer  than  all  others. 
Much  is  forgiven  to  another  which  is  not  for¬ 
given  to  him.  A  man  who  has  emerged  from  his 
house  in  brilliant,  festive  garments,  has  but  to  be 
spattered  with  a  single  drop  of  mud  from  a 
wheel,  and  people  surround  him,  and  point  the 
finger  at  him,  and  talk  of  his  want  of  cleanli¬ 
ness  ;  while  the  same  people  do  not  perceive 
the  multitude  of  spots  upon  other  passers-by, 
who  are  clothed  in  ordinary  garments,  for  spots 
are  not  visible  on  ordinary  garments.’ 

“  He  blessed  and  embraced  me.  Never  in  my 
life  was  I  so  grandly  moved.  Reverently,  rather 
than  with  the  feeling  of  a  son,  I  leaned  upon  his 
breast,  and  kissed  his  scattered  silver  locks. 

“  Tears  shone  in  his  eyes.  ‘Fulfil  my  one 
request,  my  son,’  said  he,  at  the  moment  of 
parting.  ‘You  may  chance  to  see  the  portrait 
I  have  mentioned,  somewhere.  You  will  know 
it  at  once  by  the  strange  eyes,  and  their  peculiar 
expression.  Destroy  it  at  any  cost.’  .  .  . 

“Judge  for  yourselves  whether  I  could  refuse 
to  promise,  with  an  oath,  to  fulfil  this  request. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


315 


In  the  space  of  fifteen  years,  I  had  never  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  meeting  with  any  thing  which  in  any 
way  corresponded  to  the  description  given  me 
by  my  father,  until  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  at  an 
auction  ”... 

The  artist  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but 
turned  his  eyes  to  the  wall  in  order  to  glance 
once  more  at  the  portrait.  The  whole  throng 
of  his  auditors  made  the  same  movement,  seek¬ 
ing  the  wonderful  portrait  with  their  eyes.  But, 
to  their  extreme  amazement,  it  was  no  longer 
on  the  wall.  An  indistinct  murmur  and  ex¬ 
clamation  ran  through  the  crowd,  and  then  was 
heard  distinctly  the  word,  stolen.  Some  one 
had  succeeded  in  carrying  it  off,  taking  advan¬ 
tage  of  the  fact  that  the  attention  of  the  specta¬ 
tors  was  distracted  by  the  story.  And  those 
present  remained  long  in  a  state  of  surprise, 
not  knowing  whether  they  had  really  seen  those 
remarkable  eyes,  or  whether  it  was  simply  a 
dream,  which  had  floated  for  an  instant  before 
their  vision,  strained  with  long  gazing  at  old 
pictures. 


I 


I 

\ 


THE  CLOAK/ 


- *-#-* - 

In  the  department  of  .  .  .  but  it  is  better 
not  to  name  the  department.  There  is  nothing 
more  irritable  than  all  kinds  of  departments, 
regiments,  courts  of  justice,  and,  in  a  word, 
every  branch  of  public  service.  Each  separate 
man  nowadays  thinks  all  society  insulted  in 
his  person.  They  say  that,  quite  recently,  a 
complaint  was  received  from  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  in  which  he  plainly  demonstrated  that 
all  the  imperial  institutions  were  going  to  the 
dogs,  and  that  his  sacred  name  was  being  taken 
in  vain  ;  and  in  proof  he  appended  to  the  com¬ 
plaint  a  huge  volume  of  some  romantic  compo¬ 
sition,  in  which  the  justice  of  the  peace  appears 
about  once  in  every  ten  lines,  sometimes  in  a 
drunken  condition.  Therefore,  in  order  to 
avoid  all  unpleasantness,  it  will  be  better  for  us 

1  From  the  series  of  St.  Petersburg  tales. 


3T7 


THE  CLOAK. 


318 

to  designate  the  department  in  question  as  a 
certain  department.  So,  in  a  certain  department 
serves  a  certain  tchinovnik  ( official ), —  not  a  very 
prominent  official,  it  must  be  allowed, — short 
of  stature,  somewhat  pock-marked,  rather  red- 
haired,  rather  blind,  judging  from  appearances, 
with  a  small  bald  spot  on  his  forehead,  with 
wrinkles  on  his  cheeks,  with  a  complexion  of 
the  sort  called  sanguine.  .  .  .  How  could  he 
help  it  ?  The  Petersburg  climate  was  responsi¬ 
ble  for  that.  As  for  his  tchin  (rank),  — for  with 
us  the  rank  must  be  stated  first  of  all,  — he  was 
what  is  called  a  perpetual  titular  councillor, 
over  which,  as  is  well  known,  some  writers 
make  merry  and  crack  their  jokes,  as  they  have 
the  praiseworthy  custom  of  attacking  those 
who  cannot  bite  back. 

His  family  name  was  Bashmatchkin.  It  is 
evident  from  the  name,  that  it  originated  in 
bashmak  (shoe) ;  but  when,  at  what  time,  and 
in  what  manner,  is  not  known.  His  father 
and  grandfather,  and  even  his  brother-in-law,  and 
all  the  Bashmatchkins,  always  wore  boots,  and 
only  had  new  heels  two  or  three  times  a  year. 
His  name  was  Akakiy  Akakievitch.  It  may 


THE  CLOAK, \ 


319 


strike  the  reader  as  rather  singular  and  far¬ 
fetched  ;  but  he  may  feel  assured  that  it  was 
by  no  means  far-fetched,  and  that  the  circum¬ 
stances  were  such  that  it  would  have  been  im¬ 
possible  to  give  him  any  other  name  ;  and  this 
was  how  it  came  about.  Akakiy  Akakievitch 
was  born,  if  my  memory  fails  me  not,  towards 
night  on  the  23d  of  March.  His  late  mother, 
the  wife  of  a  tchinovnik,  and  a  very  fine  woman, 
made  all  due  arrangements  for  having  the  child 
baptized.  His  mother  was  lying  on  the  bed 
opposite  the  door  :  on  her  right  stood  the  god¬ 
father,  a  most  estimable  man,  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
Eroshkin,  who  served  as  presiding  officer  of 
the  senate  ;  and  the  godmother,  the  wife  of  an 
officer  of  the  quarter,  a  woman  of  rare  virtues, 
Anna  Semenovna  Byelobrushkova.  They  of¬ 
fered  the  mother  her  choice  of  three  names, 
—  Mokiya,  Sossiya,  or  that  the  child  should  be 
called  after  the  martyr  Khozdazat.  “No,” 
pronounced  the  blessed  woman,  “all  those 
names  are  poor.”  In  order  to  please  her,  they 
opened  the  calendar  at  another  place  :  three 
more  names  appeared, — Triphiliy,  Dula,  and 
Varakhasiy.  “This  is  a  judgment,”  said  the 


320 


THE  CLOAK, 


old  woman.  “What  names!  I  truly  never 
heard  the  like.  Varadat  or  Varukh  might  have 
been  borne,  but  not  Triphiliy  and  Varakhasiy  !  ” 
They  turned  another  page  —  Pavsikakhiy  and 
Vakhtisiy.  “Now  I  see,”  said  the  old  woman, 
“  that  it  is  plainly  fate.  And  if  that’s  the 
case,  it  will  be  better  to  name  him  after  his 
father.  His  father’s  name  was  Akakiy,  so  let 
his  son’s  be  also  Akakiy.”  In  this  manner  he 
became  Akakiy  Akakievitch.  They  christened 
the  child,  whereat  he  wept,  and  made  a  grimace, 
as  though  he  foresaw  that  he  was  to  be  a  titular 
councillor.  In  this  manner  did  it  all  come 
about.  We  have  mentioned  it,  in  order  that 
the  reader  might  see  for  himself  that  it  hap¬ 
pened  quite  as  a  case  of  necessity,  and  that  it 
was  utterly  impossible  to  give  him  any  other 
name.  When  and  how  he  entered  the  depart¬ 
ment,  and  who  appointed  him,  no  one  could  re¬ 
member.  However  much  the  directors  and 
chiefs  of  all  kinds  were  changed,  he  was  always 
to  be  seen  in  the  same  place,  the  same  attitude, 
the  same  occupation,  —  the  same  official  for  let¬ 
ters  ;  so  that  afterwards  it  was  affirmed  that  he 
had  been  born  in  undress  uniform  with  a  bald 


THE  CLOAK. 


321 


spot  on  his  head.  No  respect  was  shown  him 
in  the  department.  The  janitor  not  only  did 
not  rise  from  his  seat  when  he  passed,  but 
never  even  glanced  at  him,  as  if  only  a  fly  had 
flown  through  the  reception-room.  His  supe¬ 
riors  treated  him  in  a  coolly  despotic  manner. 
Some  assistant  chief  would  thrust  a  paper 
under  his  nose  without  so  much  as  saying, 

“  Copy,”  or,  “  Here’s  a  nice,  interesting  matter,”* 
or  any  thing  else  agreeable,  as  is  customary  in 
well-bred  service.  And  he  took  it,  looking 
only  at  the  paper,  and  not  observing  who 
handed  it  to  him,  or  whether  he  had  the  right  to 
do  so  :  he  simply  took  it,  and  set  about  copying 
it.  The  young  officials  laughed  at  and  made 
fun  of  him,  so  far  as  their  official  wit  permitted ; 
recounted  there  in  his  presence  various  stories 
concocted  about  him,  and  about  his  landlady, 
an  old  woman  of  seventy  ;  they  said  that  she 
beat  him  ;  asked  when  the  wedding  was  to  be  ; 
and  strewed  bits  of  paper  over  his  head,  call¬ 
ing  them  snow.  But  Akakiy  Akakievitch  an¬ 
swered  not  a  word,  as  though  there  had  been 
no  one  before  him.  It  even  had  no  effect  upon 
his  employment :  amid  all  these  molestations 


322 


THE  CLOAK. 


he  never  made  a  single  mistake  in  a  letter. 
But  if  the  joking  became  utterly  intolerable,  as 
when  they  jogged  his  hand,  and  prevented  his 
attending  to  his  work,  he  would  exclaim, 
“Leave  me  alone!  Why  do  you  insult  me?” 
And  there  was  something  strange  in  the  words 
and  the  voice  in  which  they  were  uttered. 
There  was  in  it  a  something  which  moved  to 
pity;  so  that  one  young  man,  lately  entered, 
who,  taking  pattern  by  the  others,  had  per¬ 
mitted  himself  to  make  sport  of  him,  suddenly 
stopped  short,  as  though  all  had  undergone  a 
transformation  before  him,  and  presented  itself 
in  a  different  aspect.  Some  unseen  force  re¬ 
pelled  him  from  the  comrades  whose  acquaint¬ 
ance  he  had  made,  on  the  supposition  that  they 
were  well-bred  and  polite  men.  And  long 
afterwards,  in  his  gayest  moments,  there  came 
to  his  mind  the  little  official  with  the  bald  fore¬ 
head,  with  the  heart-rending  words,  “  Leave  me 
alone!  Why  do  you  insult  me?”  And  in 
these  penetrating  words,  other  words  resounded, 
—  “I  am  thy  brother.”  And  the  poor  young 
man  covered  his  face  with  his  hand  ;  and  many 
a  time  afterwards,  in  the  course  of  his  life, 


THE  CLOAK. 


323 


he  shuddered  at  seeing  how  much  inhumanity 
there  is  in  man,  how  much  savage  coarseness  is 
concealed  in  delicate,  refined  worldliness,  and, 
O  God !  even  in  that  man  whom  the  world 
acknowledges  as  honorable  and  noble. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  another  man  who 
lived  so  entirely  for  his  duties.  It  is  saying 
but  little  to  say  that  he  served  with  zeal :  no, 
he  served  with  love.  In  that  copying,  he  saw 
a  varied  and  agreeable  world.  Enjoyment 
was  written  on  his  face  :  some  letters  were 
favorites  with  him  ;  and  when  he  encountered 
them,  he  became  unlike  himself  ;  he  smiled  and 
winked,  and  assisted  with  his  lips,  so  that  it 
seemed  as  though  each  letter  might  be  read  in 
his  face,  as  his  pen  traced  it.  If  his  pay  had 
been  in  proportion  to  his  zeal,  he  would,  per¬ 
haps,  to  his  own  surprise,  have  been  made  even 
a  councillor  of  state.  But  he  served,  as  his 
companions,  the  wits,  put  it,  like  a  buckle  in  a 
button-hole. 

Moreover,  it  is  impossible  to  say  that  no 
attention  was  paid  to  him.  One  director  being 
a  kindly  man,  and  desirous  of  rewarding  him 
for  his  long  service,  ordered  him  to  be  given 


324 


THE  CLOAK, 


something  more  important  than  mere  copying ; 
namely,  he  was  ordered  to  make  a  report  of  an 
already  concluded  affair,  to  another  court :  the 
matter  consisted  simply  in  changing  the  head¬ 
ing,  and  altering  a  few  words  from  the  first  to 
the  third  person.  This  caused  him  so  much 
toil,  that  he  was  all  in  a  perspiration,  rubbed  his 
forehead,  and  finally  said,  “  No,  give  me  rather 
something  to  copy.”  After  that  they  let  him 
copy  on  forever.  Outside  this  copying,  it  ap¬ 
peared  that  nothing  existed  for  him.  He 
thought  not  at  all  of  his  clothes  :  his  undress 
uniform  was  not  green,  but  a  sort  of  rusty-meal 
color.  The  collar  was  narrow,  low,  so  that  his 
neck,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  not  long, 
seemed  inordinately  long  as  it  emerged  from 
that  collar,  like  the  necks  of  plaster  cats  which 
wag  their  heads,  and  are  carried  about  upon  the 
heads  of  scores  of  Russian  foreigners.  And 
something  was  always  sticking  to  his  uniform, 
—  either  a  piece  of  hay  or  some  trifle.  More¬ 
over,  he  had  a  peculiar  knack,  as  he  walked  in 
the  street,  of  arriving  beneath  a  window  when 
all  sorts  of  rubbish  was  being  flung  out  of  it : 
hence  he  always  bore  about  on  his  hat  melon 


THE  CLOAK. 


325 


and  water-melon  rinds,  and  other  such  stuff. 
Never  once  in  his  life  did  he  give  heed  to  what 
was  going  on  every  day  in  the  street ;  while  it 
is  well  known  that  his  young  brother  official, 
extending  the  range  of  his  bold  glance,  gets 
so  that  he  can  see  when  any  one’s  trouser- 
straps  drop  down  upon  the  opposite  sidewalk, 
which  always  calls  forth  a  malicious  smile  upon 
his  face.  But  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  if  he  looked 
at  any  thing,  saw  in  all  things  the  clean,  even 
strokes  of  his  written  lines  ;  and  only  when  a 
horse  thrust  his  muzzle,  from  some  unknown 
quarter,  over  his  shoulder,  and  sent  a  whole 
gust  of  wind  down  his  neck  from  his  nostrils, 
did  he  observe  that  he  was  not  in  the  middle 
of  a  line,  but  in  the  middle  of  the  street. 

On  arriving  at  home,  he  sat  down  at  once  at 
the  table,  supped  his  cabbage-soup  quickly,  and 
ate  a  bit  of  beef  with  onions,  never  noticing 
their  taste,  ate  it  all  with  flies  and  any  thing 
else  which  the  Lord  sent  at  the  moment.  On 
observing  that  his  stomach  began  to  puff  out, 
he  rose  from  the  table,  took  out  a  little  vial 
with  ink,  and  copied  papers  which  he  had 
brought  home.  If  there  happened  to  be  none, 


326 


THE  CLOAK. 


he  took  copies  for  himself,  for  his  own  gratifica¬ 
tion,  especially  if  the  paper  was  noteworthy, 
not  on  account  of  its  beautiful  style,  but  of  its 
being  addressed  to  some  new  or  distinguished 
person. 

Even  at  the  hour  when  the  gray  Petersburg 
sky  had  quite  disappeared,  and  all  the  world 
of  tchinovniks  had  eaten  or  dined,  each  as  he 
could,  in  accordance  with  the  salary  he  received, 
and  his  own  fancy;  when  all  were  resting  from 
the  departmental  jar  of  pens,  running  to  and 
fro,  their  own  and  other  people’s  indispensable 
occupations,  and  all  the  work  that  an  uneasy 
man  makes  willingly  for  himself,  rather  than 
what  is  necessary ;  when  tchinovniks  hasten 
to  dedicate  to  pleasure  the  time  which  is  left 
to  them  —  one  bolder  than  the  rest  goes  to  the 
theatre  ;  another,  into  the  streets,  devoting  it  to 
the  inspection  of  some  bonnets  ;  one  wastes  his 
evening  in  compliments  to  some  pretty  girl,  the 
star  of  a  small  official  circle;  one  —  and  this 
is  the  most  common  case  of  all  —  goes  to  his 
comrades  on  the  fourth  or  third  floor,  to  two 
small  rooms  with  an  ante-room  or  kitchen,  and 
some  pretensions  to  fashion,  a  lamp  or  some 


THE  CLOAK. 


327 


other  trifle  which  has  cost  many  a  sacrifice  of 
dinner  or  excursion  —  in  a  word,  even  at  the 
hour  when  all  tchinovniks  disperse  among  the 
contracted  quarters  of  their  friends,  to  play  at 
whist,  as  they  sip  their  tea  from  glasses  with  a 
kopek’s  worth  of  sugar,  draw  smoke  through 
long  pipes,  relating  at  times  some  bits  of  gossip 
which  a  Russian  man  can  never,  under  any  cir¬ 
cumstances,  refrain  from,  or  even  when  there  is 
nothing  to  say,  recounting  everlasting  anecdotes 
about  the  commandant  whom  they  had  sent  to 
inform  that  the  tails  of  the  horses  on  the  Fal¬ 
conet  Monument  had  been  cut  off,  —  in  a  word, 
even  when  all  strive  to  divert  themselves,  Aka¬ 
kiy  Akakievitch  yielded  to  no  diversion.  No 
one  could  ever  say  that  he  had  seen  him  at  any 
sort  of  an  evening  party.  Having  written  to 
his  heart’s  content,  he  lay  down  to  sleep,  smil¬ 
ing  at  the  thought  of  the  coming  day,  —  of 
what  God  might  send  to  copy  on  the  morrow. 
Thus  flowed  on  the  peaceful  life  of  the  man, 
who,  with  a  salary  of  four  hundred  rubles, 
understood  how  to  be  content  with  his  fate  ;  and 
thus  it  would  have  continued  to  flow  on,  per¬ 
haps,  to  extreme  old  age,  were  there  not  various 


THE  CLOAK. 


328 

ills  sown  aiong  the  path  of  life  for  titular  coun¬ 
cillors  as  well  as  for  private,  actual,  court,  and 
every  other  species  of  councillor,  even  for  those 
who  never  give  any  advice,  or  take  any  them¬ 
selves. 

There  exists  in  Petersburg  a  powerful  foe  of 
all  who  receive  four  hundred  rubles  salary  a 
year,  or  thereabouts.  This  foe  is  no  other  than 
our  Northern  cold,  although  it  is  said  to  be  very 
wholesome.  At  nine  o’clock  in  the  morning, 
at  the  very  hour  when  the  streets  are  filled  with 
men  bound  for  the  departments,  it  begins  to 
bestow  such  powerful  and  piercing  nips  on  all 
noses  impartially,  that  the  poor  officials  really 
do  not  know  what  to  do  with  them.  At  the 
hour  when  the  foreheads  of  even  those  who 
occupy  exalted  positions  ache  with  the  cold, 
and  tears  start  to  their  eyes,  the  poor  titular 
councillors  are  sometimes  unprotected.  Their 
only  salvation  lies  in  traversing  as  quickly  as 
possible,  in  their  thin  little  cloaks,  five  or  six 
streets,  and  then  warming  their  feet  well  in  the 
porter’s  room,  and  so  thawing  all  their  talents 
and  qualifications  for  official  service,  which  had 
become  frozen  on  the  way.  Akakiy  Akakie- 


THE  CLOAK. 


329 


vitch  had  felt  for  some  time  that  his  back  and 
shoulders  suffered  with  peculiar  poignancy,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  tried  to  traverse  the 
legal  distance  with  all  possible  speed.  He 
finally  wondered  whether  the  fault  did  not  lie  in 
his  cloak.  He  examined  it  thoroughly  at  home, 
and  discovered  that  in  two  places,  namely,  on 
the  back  and  shoulders,  it  had  become  thin  as 
mosquito-netting  :  the  cloth  was  worn  to  such  a 
degree  that  he  could  see  through  it,  and  the 
lining  had  fallen  into  pieces.  You  must  know 
that  Akakiy  Akakievitch’s  cloak  served  as  an 
object  of  ridicule  to  the  tchinovniks  :  they  even 
deprived  it  of  the  noble  name  of  cloak,  and 
called  it  a  capote.1  In  fact,  it  was  of  singular 
make  :  its  collar  diminished  year  by  year,  but 
served  to  patch  its  other  parts.  The  patching 
did  not  exhibit  great  skill  on  the  part  of  the 
tailor,  and  turned  out,  in  fact,  baggy  and  ugly. 
Seeing  how  the  matter  stood,  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch  decided  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  take 
the  cloak  to  Petrovitch,  the  tailor,  who  lived 
somewhere  on  the  fourth  floor  up  a  dark  stair¬ 
case,  and  who,  in  spite  of  his  having  but  one 


1  A  woman’s  cloak. 


330 


THE  CLOAK, 


eye,  and  pock-marks  all  over  his  face,  busied 
himself  with  considerable  success  in  repairing 
the  trousers  and  coats  of  officials  and  others ; 
that  is  to  say,  when  he  was  sober,  and  not  nurs¬ 
ing  some  other  scheme  in  his  head.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  say  much  about  this  tailor  :  but,  as 
it  is  the  custom  to  have  the  character  of  each 
personage  in  a  novel  clearly  defined,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  ;  so  here  is  Petrovitch  the 
tailor.  At  first  he  was  called  only  Grigoriy, 
and  was  some  gentleman’s  serf :  he  began  to 
call  himself  Petrovitch  from  the  time  when  he 
received  his  free  papers,  and  began  to  drink 
heavily  on  all  holidays,  at  first  on  the  great 
ones,  and  then  on  all  church  festivals  without 
discrimination,  wherever  a  cross  stood  in  the 
calendar.  On  this  point  he  was  faithful  to  an¬ 
cestral  custom  ;  and,  quarrelling  with  his  wife, 
he  called  her  a  low  female  and  a  German.  As 
we  have  stumbled  upon  his  wife,  it  will  be 
necessary  to  say  a  word  or  two  about  her ;  but, 
unfortunately,  little  is  known  of  her  beyond  the 
fact  that  Petrovitch  has  a  wife,  who  wears  a 
cap  and  a  dress;  but  she  cannot  lay  claim  to 
beauty,  it  seems  —  at  least,  no  one  but  the  sol- 


THE  CLOAK, 


331 


diers  of  the  guard,  as  they  pulled  their  mus¬ 
taches,  and  uttered  some  peculiar  sound,  even 
looked  under  her  cap  when  they  met  her. 

Ascending  the  staircase  which  led  to  Petro- 
vitch  —  which,  to  do  it  justice,  was  all  soaked 
in  water  (dishwater),  and  penetrated  with  the 
smell  of  spirits  which  affects  the  eyes,  and  is 
an  inevitable  adjunct  to  all  dark  stairways 
in  Petersburg  houses  —  ascending  the  stairs, 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  pondered  how  much 
Petrovitch  would  ask,  and  mentally  resolved 
not  to  give  more  than  two  rubles.  The  door 
was  open  ;  for  the  mistress,  in  cooking  some 
fish,  had  raised  such  a  smoke  in  the  kitchen 
that  not  even  the  beetles  were  visible.  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  passed  through  the  kitchen  unper¬ 
ceived,  even  by  the  housewife,  and  at  length 
reached  a  room  where  he  beheld  Petrovitch 
seated  on  a  large,  unpainted  table,  with  his  legs 
tucked  under  him  like  a  Turkish  pacha.  His 
feet  were  bare,  after  the  fashion  of  tailors  as 
they  sit  at  work  ;  and  the  first  thing  which 
arrested  the  eye  was  his  thumb,  very  well 
known  to  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  with  a  deformed 
nail  thick  and  strong  as  a  turtle’s  shell.  On 


332 


THE  CLOAK. 


Petrovitch’s  neck  hung  a  skein  of  silk  and 
thread,  and  upon  his  knees  lay  some  old  gar¬ 
ment.  He  had  been  trying  for  three  minutes 
to  thread  his  needle,  unsuccessfully,  and  so  was 
very  angry  with  the  darkness,  and  even  with 
the  thread,  growling  in  a  low  voice,  “  It  won’t 
go  through,  the  barbarian !  you  pricked  me, 
you  rascal  !  ”  Akakiy  Akakievitch  was  dis¬ 
pleased  at  arriving  at  the  precise  moment  when 
Petrovitch  was  angry  :  he  liked  to  order  some¬ 
thing  of  Petrovitch  when  the  latter  was  a  little 
downhearted,  or,  as  his  wife  expressed  it, 
“when  he  had  settled  himself  with  brandy,  the 
one-eyed  devil!”  Under  such  circumstances, 
Petrovitch  generally  came  down  in  his  price 
very  readily,  and  came  to  an  understanding, 
and  even  bowed  and  returned  thanks.  After¬ 
wards,  to  be  sure,  his  wife  came,  complaining 
that  her  husband  was  drunk,  and  so  had  set  the 
price  too  low ;  but,  if  only  a  ten-kopek  piece 
were  added,  then  the  matter  was  settled.  But 
now  it  appeared  that  Petrovitch  was  in  a  sober 
condition,  and  therefore  rough,  taciturn,  and 
inclined  to  demand,  Satan  only  knows  what 
price.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  felt  this,  and  would 


THE  CLOAK. 


333 


gladly  have  beat  a  retreat,  as  the  saying  goes ; 
but  he  was  in  for  it.  Petrovitch  screwed  up 
his  one  eye  very  intently  at  him  ;  and  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  involuntarily  said,  “How  do  you 
do,  Petrovitch  !  ” 

“I  wish  you  a  good-morning,  sir,”  said  Petro¬ 
vitch,  and  squinted  at  Akakiy  Akakievitch’s 
hands,  wishing  to  see  what  sort  of  booty  he 
had  brought. 

“Ah!  I  .  .  .  to  you,  Petrovitch,  this” —  It 
must  be  known  that  Akakiy  Akakievitch  ex¬ 
pressed  himself  chiefly  by  prepositions,  ad¬ 
verbs,  and  by  such  scraps  of  phrases  as  had  no 
meaning  whatever.  But  if  the  matter  was  a 
very  difficult  one,  then  he  had  a  habit  of  never 
completing  his  sentences ;  so  that  quite  fre¬ 
quently,  having  begun  his  phrase  with  the 
words,  “This,  in  fact,  is  quite”  <  .  .  there  was 
no  more  of  it,  and  he  forgot  himself,  thinking 
that  he  had  already  finished  it. 

“What  is  it?”  asked  Petrovitch,  and  with 
his  one  eye  scanned  his  whole  uniform,  begin¬ 
ning  with  the  collar  down  to  the  cuffs,  the  back, 
the  tails  and  button-holes,  all  of  which  were 
very  well  known  to  him,  because  they  were  his 


334 


THE  CLOAK, I 


own  handiwork.  Such  is  the  habit  of  tailors  : 
it  is  the  first  thing  they  do  on  meeting  one. 

“But  I,  here,  this,  Petrovitch,  ...  a  cloak, 
cloth  .  .  .  here  you  see,  everywhere,  in  differ¬ 
ent  places,  it  is  quite  strong  ...  it  is  a  little 
dusty,  and  looks  old,  but  it  is  new,  only  here  in 
one  place  it  is  a  little  ...  on  the  back,  and 
here  on  one  of  the  shoulders,  it  is  a  little  worn, 
yes,  here  on  this  shoulder  it  is  a  little  ...  do 
you  see  ?  this  is  all.  And  a  little  work  ”  .  .  . 

Petrovitch  took  the  mantle,  spread  it  out,  to 
begin  with,  on  the  table,  looked  long  at  it, 
shook  his  head,  put  out  his  hand  to  the  window¬ 
sill  after  his  snuff-box,  adorned  with  the  por¬ 
trait  of  some  general, — just  what  general  is 
unknown,  for  the  place  where  the  face  belonged 
had  been  rubbed  through  by  the  finger,  and  a 
square  bit  of  paper  had  been  pasted  on.  Hav¬ 
ing  taken  a  pinch  of  snuff,  Petrovitch  spread 
the  cloak  out  on  his  hands,  and  inspected  it 
against  the  light,  and  again  shook  his  head  ; 
then  he  turned  it,  lining  upwards,  and  shook 
his  head  once  more ;  again  he  removed  the 
general-adorned  cover  with  its  bit  of  pasted 
paper,  and,  having  stuffed  his  nose  with  snuff, 


THE  CLOAK, 


335 


covered  and  put  away  the  snuff-box,  and  said 
finally,  “  No,  it  is  impossible  to  mend  it :  it’s  a 
miserable  garment !  ” 

Akakiy  Akakievitch’s  heart  sank  at  these 
words. 

“  Why  is  it  impossible,  Petrovitch  ?  ”  he  said, 
almost  in  the  pleading  voice  of  a  child:  “all 
that  ails  it  is,  that  it  is  worn  on  the  shoulders. 
You  must  have  some  pieces.”  .  .  . 

“Yes,  patches  could  be  found,  patches  are 
easily  found,”  said  Petrovitch,  “but  there’s 
nothing  to  sew  them  to.  The  thing  is  com¬ 
pletely  rotten  :  if  you  touch  a  needle  to  it  — 
see,  it  will  give  way.” 

“Let  it  give  way,  and  you  can  put  on  another 
patch  at  once.” 

“  But  there  is  nothing  to  put  the  patches  on  ; 
there’s  no  use  in  strengthening  it ;  it  is  very 
far  gone.  It’s  lucky  that  it’s  cloth  ;  for,  if  the 
wind  were  to  blow,  it  would  fly  away.” 

“Well,  strengthen  it  again.  How  this,  in 
fact  ”... 

“No,”  said  Petrovitch  decisively,  “there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  with  it.  It’s  a  thoroughly 
bad  job.  You’d  better,  when  the  cold  winter 


33<5 


THE  CLOAK. 


weather  comes  on,  make  yourself  some  foot- 
bandages  out  of  it,  because  stockings  are  not 
warm.  The  Germans  invented  them  in  order 
to  make  more  money.  [Petrovitch  loved,  on 
occasion,  to  give  a  fling  at  the  Germans.]  But 
it  is  plain  that  you  must  have  a  new  cloak.” 

At  the  word  new,  all  grew  dark  before 
Akakiy  Akakievitch’s  eyes,  and  every  thing  in 
the  room  began  to  whirl  round.  The  only 
thing  he  saw  clearly  was  the  general  with  the 
paper  face  on  Petrovitch’s  snuff-box  cover. 
“How  a  new  one?”  said  he,  as  if  still  in  a 
dream  :  “why,  I  have  no  money  for  that.” 

“Yes,  a  new  one,”  said  Petrovitch,  with  bar¬ 
barous  composure. 

“Well,  if  it  came  to  a  new  one,  how,  it”  .  .  . 

“You  mean  how  much  would  it  cost?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well,  you  would  have  to  lay  out  a  hundred 
and  fifty  or  more,”  said  Petrovitch,  and  pursed 
up  his  lips  significantly.  He  greatly  liked 
powerful  effects,  liked  to  stun  utterly  and  sud¬ 
denly,  and  then  to  glance  sideways  to  see  what 
face  the  stunned  person  would  put  on  the 
matter. 


THE  CLOAK. 


337 


“A  hundred  and  fifty  rubles  for  a  cloak!” 
shrieked  poor  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  —  shrieked 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  for  his 
voice  had  always  been  distinguished  for  its  soft¬ 
ness. 

“  Yes,  sir,”  said  Petrovitch,  “for  any  sort  of 
a  cloak.  If  you  have  marten  fur  on  the  collar, 
or  a  silk-lined  hood,  it  will  mount  up  to  two 
hundred.” 

“Petrovitch,  please,”  said  Akakiy  Akakie¬ 
vitch  in  a  beseeching  tone,  not  hearing,  and  not 
trying  to  hear,  Petrovitch’s  words,  and  all  his 
“effects,”  “some  repairs,  in  order  that  it  may 
wear  yet  a  little  longer.” 

“No,  then,  it  would  be  a  waste  of  labor  and 
money,”  said  Petrovitch  ;  and  Akakiy  Akakie¬ 
vitch  went  away  after  these  words,  utterly  dis¬ 
couraged.  But  Petrovitch  stood  long  after  his 
departure,  with  significantly  compressed  lips, 
and  not  betaking  himself  to  his  work,  satisfied 
that  he  would  not  be  dropped,  and  an  artistic 
tailor  employed. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  went  out  into  the  street 
as  if  in  a  dream.  “Such  an  affair !  ”  he  said  to 
himself  :  “  I  did  not  think  it  had  come  to  ”  .  .  . 

9 


338 


THE  CLOAK. 


and  then  after  a  pause,  he  added,  “  Well,  so  it 
is  !  see  what  it  has  come  to  at  last  !  and  I  never 
imagined  that  it  was  so !  ”  Then  followed  a 
long  silence,  after  which  he  exclaimed,  “  Well, 
so  it  is  !  see  what  already  exactly,  nothing  un¬ 
expected  that  ...  it  would  be  nothing  .  .  . 
what  a  circumstance  !  ”  So  saying,  instead  of 
going  home,  he  went  in  exactly  the  opposite 
direction  without  himself  suspecting  it.  On 
the  way,  a  chimney-sweep  brought  his  dirty  side 
up  against  him,  and  blackened  his  whole  shoul¬ 
der  :  a  whole  hatful  of  rubbish  landed  on  him 
from  the  top  of  a  house  which  was  building. 
He  observed  it  not ;  and  afterwards,  when  he 
ran  into  a  sentry,  who,  having  planted  his  hal¬ 
berd  beside  him,  was  shaking  some  snuff  from 
his  box  into  his  horny  hand, — only  then  did 
he  recover  himself  a  little,  and  that  because 
the  sentry  said,  “  Why  are  you  thrusting  your¬ 
self  into  a  man’s  very  face  ?  Haven’t  you  the 
sidewalk?”  This  caused  him  to  look  about 
him,  and  turn  towards  home.  There  only,  he 
finally  began  to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  to  sur¬ 
vey  his  position  in  its  clear  and  actual  light, 
and  to  argue  with  himself,  not  brokenly,  but 


THE  CLOAK. 


339 


sensibly  and  frankly,  as  with  a  reasonable  friend, 
with  whom  one  can  discuss  very  private  and 
personal  matters.  “No,”  said  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch,  “it  is  impossible  to  reason  with  Petrovitch 
now  :  he  is  that  .  .  .  evidently,  his  wife  has 
been  beating  him.  I’d  better  go  to  him  Sunday 
morning :  after  Saturday  night  he  will  be  a  lit¬ 
tle  cross-eyed  and  sleepy,  for  he  will  have  to  get 
drunk,  and  his  wife  won’t  give  him  any  money ; 
and  at  such  a  time,  a  ten-kopek  piece  in  his 
hand  will  —  he  will  become  more  fit  to  reason 
with,  and  then  the  cloak,  and  that.”  .  .  .  Thus 
argued  Akakiy  Akakievitch  with  himself,  re¬ 
gained  his  courage,  and  waited  until  the  first 
Sunday,  when,  seeing  from  afar  that  Petrovitch’s 
wife  had  gone  out  of  the  house,  he  went  straight 
to  him.  Petrovitch’s  eye  was  very  much  askew, 
in  fact,  after  Saturday  :  his  head  drooped,  and 
he  was  very  sleepy ;  but  for  all  that,  as  soon  as 
he  knew  what  the  question  was,  it  seemed  as 
though  Satan  jogged  his  memory.  “Impos¬ 
sible,”  said  he:  “please  to  order  a  new  one.” 
Thereupon  Akakiy  Akakievitch  handed  over  the 
ten-kopek  piece.  “Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  will  drink 
your  good  health,”  said  Petrovitch:  “but  as  for 


340 


THE  CLOAK. 


the  cloak,  don't  trouble  yourself  about  it ;  it  is 
good  for  nothing.  I  will  make  you  a  new  coat 
famously,  so  let  us  settle  about  it  now.” 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  was  still  for  mending  it ; 
but  Petrovitch  would  not  hear  to  it,  and  said,  “  I 
shall  certainly  make  you  a  new  one,  and  please 
depend  upon  it  that  I  shall  do  my  best.  It  may 
even  be,  as  the  fashion  goes,  that  the  collar  can 
be  fastened  by  silver  hooks  under  a  flap.” 

Then  Akakiy  Akakievitch  saw  that  it  was  im¬ 
possible  to  get  along  without  a  new  cloak,  and 
his  spirit  sank  utterly.  How,  in  fact,  was  it 
to  be  accomplished  ?  Where  was  the  money  to 
come  from  ?  He  might,  to  be  sure,  depend,  in 
part,  upon  his  present  at  Christmas ;  but  that 
money  had  long  been  doled  out  and  allotted 
beforehand.  He  must  have  some  new  trousers, 
and  pay  a  debt  of  long  standing  to  the  shoe¬ 
maker  for  putting  new  tops  to  his  old  boots,  and 
he  must  order  three  shirts  from  the  seamstress, 
and  a  couple  of  pieces  of  linen  which  it  is  im¬ 
polite  to  mention  in  print;  —  in  a  word,  all 
his  money  must  be  spent ;  and  even  if  the  di¬ 
rector  should  be  so  kind  as  to  order  forty-five 
rubles  instead  of  forty,  or  even  fifty,  it  would  be 


THE  CLOAK. 


341 


a  mere  nothing,  and  a  mere  drop  in  the  ocean 
towards  the  capital  necessary  for  a  cloak : 
although  he  knew  that  Petrovitch  was  wrong¬ 
headed  enough  to  blurt  out  some  outrageous 
price,  Satan  only  knows  what,  so  that  his 
own  wife  could  not  refrain  from  exclaiming, 
“  Have  you  lost  your  senses,  you  fool  ?  ”  At 
one  time  he  would  not  work  at  any  price,  and 
now  it  was  quite  likely  that  he  had  asked  a 
price  which  it  was  not  worth.  Although  he 
knew  that  Petrovitch  would  undertake  to  make 
it  for  eighty  rubles,  still,  where  was  he  to  get 
the  eighty  rubles  ?  He  might  possibly  man¬ 
age  half ;  yes,  a  half  of  that  might  be  procured  : 
but  where  was  the  other  half  to  come  from  ? 
But  the  reader  must  first  be  told  where  the 
first  half  came  from.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  had 
a  habit  of  putting,  for  every  ruble  he  spent,  a 
groschen  into  a  small  box,  fastened  with  lock 
and  key,  and  with  a  hole  in  the  top  for  the  recep-" 
tion  of  money.  At  the  end  of  each  half-year,  he 
counted  over  the  heap  of  coppers,  and  changed 
it  into  small  silver  coins.  This  he  continued 
for  a  long  time  ;  and  thus,  in  the  course  of  some 
years,  the  sum  proved  to  amount  to  over  forty 


342 


TIIE  CLOAK. 


rubles.  Thus  he  had  one  half  on  hand  ;  but 
where  to  get  the  other  half  ?  where  to  get 
another  forty  rubles  ?  Akakiy  Akakievitch 
thought  and  thought,  and  decided  that  it  would 
be  necessary  to  curtail  his  ordinary  expenses, 
for  the  space  of  one  year  at  least,  — to  dispense 
with  tea  in  the  evening ;  to  burn  no  candles, 
and,  if  there  was  any  thing  which  he  must  do, 
to  go  into  his  landlady’s  room,  and  work  by  her 
light ;  when  he  went  into  the  street,  he  must 
walk  as  lightly  as  possible,  and  as  cautiously, 
upon  the  stones  and  flagging,  almost  upon  tip¬ 
toe,  in  order  not  to  wear  out  his  heels  in  too 
short  a  time  ;  he  must  give  the  laundress  as  lit¬ 
tle  to  wash  as  possible  ;  and,  in  order  not  to  wear 
out  his  clothes,  he  must  take  them  off  as  soon 
as  he  got  home,  and  wear  only  his  cotton  dress¬ 
ing-gown,  which  had  been  long  and  carefully 
saved. 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  a  little  hard  for  him 
at  first  to  accustom  himself  to  these  depriva¬ 
tions  ;  but  he  got  used  to  them  at  length,  after 
a  fashion,  and  all  went  smoothly  —  he  even  got 
used  to  being  hungry  in  the  evening;  but  he 
made  up  for  it  by  treating  himself  in  spirit, 


THE  CLOAK. 


343 


bearing  ever  in  mind  the  thought  of  his  future 
cloak.  From  that  time  forth,  his  existence 
seemed  to  become,  in  some  way,  fuller,  as  if  he 
were  married,  as  if  some  other  man  lived  in  him, 
as  if  he  were  not  alone,  and  some  charming 
friend  had  consented  to  go  along  life’s  path  with 
him,  —  and  the  friend  was  no  other  than  that 
cloak,  with  thick  wadding  and  a  strong  lining 
incapable  of  wearing  out.  He  became  more 
lively,  and  his  character  even  became  firmer, 
like  that  of  a  man  who  has  made  up  his  mind, 
and  set  himself  a  goal.  From  his  face  and  gait, 
doubt  and  indecision  —  in  short,  all  hesitating 
and  wavering  traits  —  disappeared  of  themselves. 
Fire  gleamed  in  his  eyes :  occasionally,  the  bold¬ 
est  and  most  daring  ideas  flitted  through  his 
mind  ;  why  not,  in  fact,  have  marten  fur  on  the 
collar  ?  The  thought  of  this  nearly  made  him 
absent-minded.  Once,  in  copying  a  letter,  he 
nearly  made  a  mistake,  so  that  he  exclaimed 
almost  aloud,  “Ugh!”  and  crossed  himself. 
Once  in  the  course  of  each  month,  he  had  a 
conference  with  Petrovitch  on  the  subject  of 
the  coat,  —  where  it  would  be  better  to  buy  the 
cloth,  and  the  color,  and  the  price,  —  and  he 


344 


THE  CLOAK. 


always  returned  home  satisfied,  though  trou¬ 
bled,  reflecting  that  the  time  would  come  at 
last  when  it  could  all  be  bought,  and  then  the 
cloak  could  be  made.  The  matter  progressed 
more  briskly  than  he  had  expected.  Far  beyond 
all  his  hopes,  the  director  appointed  neither  forty 
nor  forty-five  rubles  for  Akakiy  Akakievitch’s 
share,  but  sixty.  Did  he  suspect  that  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  needed  a  cloak  ?  or  did  it  merely 
happen  so  ?  at  all  events,  twenty  extra  rubles 
were  by  this  means  provided.  This  circum¬ 
stance  hastened  matters.  Only  two  or  three 
months  more  of  hunger  —  and  Akakiy  Akakie¬ 
vitch  had  accumulated  about  eighty  rubles. 
His  heart,  generally  so  quiet,  began  to  beat. 
On  the  first  possible  day,  he  visited  the  shops 
in  company  with  Petrovitch.  They  purchased 
some  very  good  cloth  —  and  reasonably,  for  they 
had  been  considering  the  matter  for  six  months, 
and  rarely  did  a  month  pass  without  their  visit¬ 
ing  the  shops  to  inquire  prices  ;  and  Petrovitch 
said  himself,  that  no  better  cloth  could  be  had. 
For  lining,  they  selected  a  cotton  stuff,  but  so 
firm  and  thick,  that  Petrovitch  declared  it  to  be 
better  than  silk,  and  even  prettier  and  more 


THE  CLOAK. 


345 


glossy.  They  did  not  buy  the  marten  fur,  be¬ 
cause  it  was  dear,  in  fact ;  but  in  its  stead,  they 
picked  out  the  very  best  of  cat-skin  which 
could  be  found  in  the  shop,  and  which  might 
be  taken  for  marten  at  a  distance. 

Petrovitch  worked  at  the  cloak  two  whole 
weeks,  for  there  was  a  great  deal  of  quilting : 
otherwise  it  would  have  been  done  sooner. 
Petrovitch  charged  twelve  rubles  for  his  work, 
—  it  could  not  possibly  be  done  for  less  :  it  was 
all  sewed  with  silk,  in  small,  double  seams;  and 
Petrovitch  went  over  each  seam  afterwards 
with  his  own  teeth,  stamping  in  various  pat¬ 
terns.  It  was  —  it  is  difficult  to  say  precisely 
on  what  day,  but  it  was  probably  the  most  glo¬ 
rious  day  in  Akakiy  Akakievitch’s  life,  when 
Petrovitch  at  length  brought  home  the  cloak. 
He  brought  it  in  the  morning,  before  the  hour 
when  it  was  necessary  to  go  to  the  department. 
Never  did  a  cloak  arrive  so  exactly  in  the  nick 
of  time ;  for  the  severe  cold  had  set  in,  and  it 
seemed  to  threaten  increase.  Petrovitch  pre¬ 
sented  himself  with  the  coat  as  befits  a  good 
tailor.  On  his  countenance  was  a  significant 
expression,  such  as  Akakiy  Akakievitch  had 


346 


THE  CLOAK. 


never  beheld  there.  He  seemed  sensible  to  the 
fullest  extent  that  he  had  done  no  small  deed, 
and  that  a  gulf  had  suddenly  appeared,  sepa¬ 
rating  tailors  who  only  put  in  linings,  and  make 
repairs,  from  those  who  make  new  things.  He 
took  the  cloak  out  of  the  pocket-handkerchief 
in  which  he  had  brought  it.  (The  handkerchief 
was  fresh  from  the  laundress  :  he  now  removed 
it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  for  use.)  Taking 
out  the  cloak,  he  gazed  proudly  at  it,  held  it 
with  both  hands,  and  flung  it  very  skilfully 
over  the  shoulders  of  Akakiy  Akakievitch ; 
then  he  pulled  it  and  fitted  it  down  behind 
with  his  hand  ;  then  he  draped  it  around  Aka¬ 
kiy  Akakievitch  without  buttoning  it.  Akakiy 
Akakievitch,  as  a  man  advanced  in  life,  wished 
to  try  the  sleeves.  Petrovitch  helped  him  on 
with  them,  and  it  turned  out  that  the  sleeves 
were  satisfactory  also.  In  short,  the  cloak 
appeared  to  be  perfect,  and  just  in  season. 
Petrovitch  did  not  neglect  this  opportunity  to 
observe  that  it  was  only  because  he  lived  in  a 
narrow  street,  and  had  no  signboard,  and 
because  he  had  known  Akakiy  Akakievitch  so 
long,  that  he  had  made  it  so  cheaply  ;  but,  if  he 


THE  CLOAK, 


347 


had  been  on  the  Nevsky  Prospect,  he  would 
have  charged  seventy-five  rubles  for  the  making 
alone.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  did  not  care  to 
argue  this  point  with  Petrovitch,  and  he  was 
afraid  of  the  large  sums  with  which  Petrovitch 
was  fond  of  raising  the  dust.  He  paid  him, 
thanked  him,  and  set  out  at  once  in  his  new 
cloak  for  the  department.  Petrovitch  followed 
him,  and,  pausing  in  the  street,  gazed  long  at 
the  cloak  in  the  distance,  and  went  to  one  side 
expressly  to  run  through  a  crooked  alley,  and 
emerge  again  into  the  street  to  gaze  once  more 
upon  the  cloak  from  another  point,  namely, 
directly  in  front. 

Meantime  Akakiy  Akakievitch  went  on  with 
every  sense  in  holiday  mood.  He  was  con¬ 
scious  every  second  of  the  time,  that  he  had  a 
new  cloak  on  his  shoulders ;  and  several  times 
he  laughed  with  internal  satisfaction.  In  fact, 
there  were  two  advantages,  —  one  was  its 
warmth;  the  other,  its  beauty.  He  saw  noth¬ 
ing  of  the  road,  and  suddenly  found  himself  at 
the  department.  He  threw  off  his  cloak  in  the 
ante-room,  looked  it  over  well,  and  confided  it 
to  the  especial  care  of  the  janitor.  It  is  impos- 


348 


THE  CLOAK. 


sible  to  say  just  how  every  one  in  the  depart¬ 
ment  knew  at  once  that  Akakiy  Akakievitch 
had  a  new  cloak,  and  that  the  “ mantle”  no 
longer  existed.  All  rushed  at  the  same 
moment  into  the  ante-room,  to  inspect  Akakiy 
Akakievitch’s  new  cloak.  They  began  to  con¬ 
gratulate  him,  and  to  say  pleasant  things  to 
him,  so  that  he  began  at  first  to  smile,  and  then 
he  grew  ashamed.  When  all  surrounded  him, 
and  began  to  say  that  the  new  cloak  must  be 
“  christened,”  and  that  he  must  give  a  whole 
evening  at  least  to  it,  Akakiy  Akakievitch  lost 
his  head  completely,  knew  not  where  he  stood, 
what  to  answer,  and  how  to  get  out  of  it.  He 
stood  blushing  all  over  for  several  minutes,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  assuring  them  with  great 

simplicity  that  it  was  not  a  new  cloak,  that  it 

• 

was  so  and  so,  that  it  was  the  old  cloak.  At 
length  one  of  the  tchinovniks,  some  assistant 
chief  probably,  in  order  to  show  that  he  was 
not  at  all  proud,  and  on  good  terms  with  his 
inferiors,  said,  “  So  be  it  :  I  will  give  the  party 
instead  of  Akakiy  Akakievitch  ;  I  invite  you 
all  to  tea  with  me  to-night ;  it  happens  quite 
apropos y  as  it  is  my  name-day.”  The  officials 


THE  CLOAK, 


349 


naturally  at  once  offered  the  assistant  chief 
their  congratulations,  and  accepted  the  invita¬ 
tion  with  pleasure.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  would 
have  declined ;  but  all  declared  that  it  was  dis¬ 
courteous,  that  it  was  simply  a  sin  and  a  shame, 
and  that  he  could  not  possibly  refuse.  Besides, 
the  idea  became  pleasant  to  him  when  he  recol¬ 
lected  that  he  should  thereby  have  a  chance  to 
wear  his  new  cloak  in  the  evening  also.  That 
whole  day  was  truly  a  most  triumphant  festival 
day  for  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  He  returned 
home  in  the  most  happy  frame  of  mind,  threw 
off  his  cloak,  and  hung  it  carefully  on  the  wall, 
admiring  afresh  the  cloth  and  the  lining;  and 
then  he  brought  out  his  old,  worn-out  cloak,  for 
comparison.  He  looked  at  it,  and  laughed,  so 
vast  was  the  difference.  And  long  after  dinner 
he  laughed  again  when  the  condition  of  the 
mantle  recurred  to  his  mind.  He  dined  gayly, 
and  after  dinner  wrote  nothing,  no  papers  even, 
but  took  his  ease  for  a  while  on  the  bed,  until 
it  got  dark.  Then  he  dressed  himself  lei¬ 
surely,  put  on  his  cloak,  and  stepped  out  into 
the  street.  Where  the  host  lived,  unfortu¬ 
nately  we  cannot  say  :  our  memory  begins  to 


350 


THE  CLOAK, 


fail  us  badly  ;  and  every  thing  in  St.  Peters¬ 
burg,  all  the  houses  and  streets,  have  run 
together,  and  become  so  mixed  up  in  our 
head,  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  produce  any 
thing  thence  in  proper  form.  At  all  events, 
this  much  is  certain,  that  the  tchinovnik  lived 
in  the  best  part  of  the  city ;  and  therefore  it 
must  have  been  any  thing  but  near  to  Akakiy 
Akakievitch.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  was  first 
obliged  to  traverse  a  sort  of  wilderness  of  de¬ 
serted,  dimly  lighted  streets  ;  but  in  proportion 
as  he  approached  the  tchinovnik’s  quarter  of 
the  city,  the  streets  became  more  lively,  more 
populous,  and  more  brilliantly  illuminated. 
Pedestrians  began  to  appear ;  handsomely 
dressed  ladies  were  more  frequently  encoun¬ 
tered  ;  the  men  had  otter  collars ;  peasant 
wagoners,  with  their  grate-like  sledges  stuck 
full  of  gilt  nails,  became  rarer;  on  the  other 
hand,  more  and  more  coachmen  in  red  velvet 
caps,  with  lacquered  sleighs  and  bear-skin  robes, 
began  to  appear;  carriages  with  decorated  coach¬ 
boxes  flew  swiftly  through  the  streets,  their 
wheels  scrunching  the  snow.  Akakiy  Akakie¬ 
vitch  gazed  upon  all  this  as  upon  a  novelty. 


THE  CLOAK. 


3Si 


He  had  not  been  in  the  streets  during  the 
evening  for  years.  He  halted  out  of  curiosity 
before  the  lighted  window  of  a  shop,  to  look  at 
a  picture  representing  a  handsome  woman,  who 
had  thrown  off  her  shoe,  thereby  baring  her 
whole  foot  in  a  very  pretty  way  ;  and  behind 
her  the  head  of  a  man  with  side-whiskers  and 
a  handsome  mustache  peeped  from  the  door  of 
another  room.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  shook  his 
head,  and  laughed,  and  then  went  on  his  way. 
Why  did  he  laugh  ?  Because  he  had  met  with 
a  thing  utterly  unknown,  but  for  which  every 
one  cherishes,  nevertheless,  some  sort  of  feel¬ 
ing;  or  else  he  thought,  like  many  officials, 
as  follows:  “Well,  those  French!  What  is  to 
be  said  ?  If  they  like  any  thing  of  that  sort, 
then,  in  fact,  that  ”  .  .  .  But  possibly  he  did 
not  think  that. 

For  it  is  impossible  to  enter  a  man’s  mind, 
and  know  all  that  he  thinks.  At  length  he 
reached  the  house  in  which  the  assistant  chief 
lodged.  The  assistant  chief  lived  in  fine  style  : 
on  the  staircase  burned  a  lantern  ;  his  apartment 
was  on  the  second  floor.  On  entering  the  ves¬ 
tibule,  Akakiy  Akakievitch  beheld  a  whole  row 


352 


THE  CLOAK. 


of  overshoes  on  the  floor.  Amid  them,  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  stood  a  samovar,  humming, 
and  emitting  clouds  of  steam.  On  the  walls 
hung  all  sorts  of  coats  and  cloaks,  among  which 
there  were  even  some  with  beaver  collars  or 
velvet  facings.  Beyond  the  wall  the  buzz  of 
conversation  was  audible,  which  became  clear 
and  loud  when  the  servant  came  out  with  a 
trayful  of  empty  glasses,  cream-jugs,  and  sugar- 
bowls.  It  was  evident  that  the  tchinovniks  had 
arrived  long  before,  and  had  already  finished 
their  first  glass  of  tea.  Akakiy  Akakievitch, 
having  hung  up  his  own  cloak,  entered  the 
room  ;  and  before  him  all  at  once  appeared 
lights,  officials,  pipes,  card-tables  ;  and  he  was 
surprised  by  a  sound  of  rapid  conversation  ris¬ 
ing  from  all  the  tables,  and  the  noise  of  moving 
chairs.  He  halted  very  awkwardly  in  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  the  room,  wondering,  and  trying  to  decide, 
what  he  ought  to  do.  But  they  had  seen  him  : 
they  received  him  with  a  shout,  and  all  went  out 
at  once  into  the  ante-room,  and  took  another  look 
at  his  cloak.  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  although 
somewhat  confused,  was  open-hearted,  and 
could  not  refrain  from  rejoicing  when  he  saw 


THE  CLOAK. 


353 


how  they  praised  his  cloak.  Then,  of  course, 
they  all  dropped  him  and  his  cloak,  and  returned, 
as  was  proper,  to  the  tables  set  out  for  whist. 
All  this  —  the  noise,  talk,  and  throng  of  people 
—  was  rather  wonderful  to  Akakiy  Akakievitch. 
He  simply  did  not  know  where  he  stood,  or 
where  to  put  his  hands,  his  feet,  and  his  whole 
body.  Finally  he  sat  down  by  the  players, 
looked  at  the  cards,  gazed  at  the  face  of  one 
and  another,  and  after  a  while  began  to  gape, 
and  to  feel  that  it  was  wearisome  —  the  more 
so,  as  the  hour  was  already  long  past  when  he 
usually  went  to  bed.  He  wanted  to  take  leave 
of  the  host ;  but  they  would  not  let  him  go,  say¬ 
ing  that  he  must  drink  a  glass  of  champagne,  in 
honor  of  his  new  garment,  without  fail.  In  the 
course  of  an  hour,  supper  was  served,  consist¬ 
ing  of  vegetable  salad,  cold  veal,  pastry,  con¬ 
fectioner’s  pies,  and  champagne.  They  made 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  drink  two  glasses  of  cham¬ 
pagne,  after  which  he  felt  that  the  room  grew 
livelier :  still,  he  could  not  forget  that  it  was 
twelve  o’clock,  and  that  he  should  have  been  at 
home  long  ago.  In  order  that  the  host  might 
not  think  of  some  excuse  for  detaining  him,  he 


354 


THE  CLOAK, 


went  out  of  the  room  quietly,  sought  out,  in 
the  ante-room,  his  cloak,  which,  to  his  sorrow, 
he  found  lying  on  the  floor,  brushed  it,  picked 
off  every  speck,  put  it  on  his  shoulders,  and 
descended  the  stairs  to  the  street.  In  the  street 
all  was  still  bright.  Some  petty  shops,  those 
permanent  clubs  of  servants  and  all  sorts  of  peo¬ 
ple,  were  open  :  others  were  shut,  but,  neverthe¬ 
less,  showed  a  streak  of  light  the  whole  length 
of  the  door-crack,  indicating  that  they  were  not 
yet  free  of  company,  and  that  probably  domes¬ 
tics,  both  male  and  female,  were  finishing  their 
stories  and  conversations,  leaving  their  masters 
in  complete  ignorance  as  to  their  whereabouts. 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  went  on  in  a  happy  frame 
of  mind  :  he  even  started  to  run,  without  know¬ 
ing  why,  after  some  lady,  who  flew  past  like  a 
flash  of  lightning,  and  whose  whole  body  was 
endowed  with  an  extraordinary  amount  of  move¬ 
ment.  But  he  stopped  short,  and  went  on  very 
quietly  as  before,  wondering  whence  he  had  got 
that  gait.  Soon  there  spread  before  him  those 
deserted  streets,  which  are  not  cheerful  in  the 
daytime,  not  to  mention  the  evening.  Now 
they  were  even  more  dim  and  lonely :  the  lan- 


THE  CLOAK. 


355 


terns  began  to  grow  rarer  —  oil,  evidently,  had 
been  less  liberally  supplied  ;  then  came  wooden 
houses  and  fences  :  not  a  soul  anywhere  ;  only 
the  snow  sparkled  in  the  streets,  and  mourn¬ 
fully  darkled  the  low-roofed  cabins  with  their 
closed  shutters.  He  approached  the  place  where 
the  street  crossed  an  endless  square  with  barely 
visible  houses  on  its  farther  side,  and  which 
seemed  a  fearful  desert. 

Afar,  God  knows  where,  a  tiny  spark  glim¬ 
mered  from  some  sentry-box,  which  seemed  to 
stand  on  the  edge  of  the  world.  Akakiy  Aka- 
kievitch’s  cheerfulness  diminished  at  this  point 
in  a  marked  degree.  He  entered  the  square,  not 
without  an  involuntary  sensation  of  fear,  as 
though  his  heart  warned  him  of  some  evil.  He 
glanced  back  and  on  both  sides  —  it  was  like  a 
sea  about  him.  “  No,  it  is  better  not  to  look,” 
he  thought,  and  went  on,  closing  his  eyes  ;  and 
when  he  opened  them,  to  see  whether  he  was 
near  the  end  of  the  square,  he  suddenly  beheld, 
standing  just  before  his  very  nose,  some  bearded 
individuals  —  of  just  what  sort,  he  could  not 
make  out.  All  grew  dark  before  his  eyes,  and 
his  breast  throbbed. 


356 


THE  CLOAK, 


“But  of  course  the  cloak  is  mine !  ”  said  one 
of  them  in  a  loud  voice,  seizing  hold  of  the  collar. 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  was  about  to  shout  watch , 
when  the  second  man  thrust  a  fist  into  his 
mouth,  about  the  size  of  a  tchinovnik’s  head, 
muttering,  “  Now  scream  !  ” 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  felt  them  take  off  his 
cloak,  and  give  him  a  push  with  a  knee :  he  fell 
headlong  upon  the  snow,  and  felt  no  more.  In 
a  few  minutes  he  recovered  consciousness,  and 
rose  to  his  feet ;  but  no  one  was  there.  He  felt 
that  it  was  cold  in  the  square,  and  that  his  cloak 
was  gone  :  he  began  to  shout,  but  his  voice  did 

not  appear  to  reach  to  the  outskirts  of  the  square. 

« 

In  despair,  but  without  ceasing  to  shout,  he 
started  on  a  run  through  the  square,  straight 
towards  the  sentry-box,  beside  which  stood  the 
watchman,  leaning  on  his  halberd,  and  appar¬ 
ently  curious  to  know  what  Devil  of  a  man  was 
running  towards  him  from  afar,  and  shouting. 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  ran  up  to  him,  and  began 
in  a  sobbing  voice  to  shout  that  he  was  asleep, 
and  attended  to  nothing,  and  did  not  see  when 
a  man  was  robbed.  The  watchman  replied  that 
he  had  seen  no  one ;  that  he  had  seen  two  men 


THE  CLOAK. 


357 


stop  him  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  and  sup¬ 
posed  that  they  were  friends  of  his  ;  and  that, 
instead  of  scolding  in  vain,  he  had  better  go  to 
the  captain  on  the  morrow,  so  that  the  captain 
might  investigate  as  to  who  had  stolen  the  cloak. 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  ran  home  in  complete  dis¬ 
order  :  his  hair,  which  grew  very  thinly  upon 
his  temples  and  the  back  of  his  head,  was  en¬ 
tirely  disarranged  ;  his  side  and  breast,  and  all 
his  trousers,  were  covered  with  snow.  The  old 
woman,  mistress  of  his  lodgings,  hearing  a  ter¬ 
rible  knocking,  sprang  hastily  from  her  bed,  and, 
with  a  shoe  on  one  foot  only,  ran  to  open  the 
door,  pressing  the  sleeve  of  her  chemise  to 
her  bosom  out  of  modesty ;  but  when  she  had 
opened  it,  she  fell  back  on  beholding  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  in  such  a  state.  When  he  told 
the  matter,  she  clasped  her  hands,  and  said  that 
he  must  go  straight  to  the  superintendent,  for 
the  captain  would  turn  up  his  nose,  promise 
well,  and  drop  the  matter  there  :  the  very  best 
thing  to  do,  would  be  to  go  to  the  superintend¬ 
ent  ;  that  he  knew  her,  because  Finnish  Anna, 
her  former  cook,  was  now  nurse  at  the  superin¬ 
tendent’s  ;  that  she  often  saw  him  passing  the 


358 


THE  CLOAK. 


house  ;  and  that  he  was  at  church  every  Sunday, 
praying,  but  at  the  same  time  gazing  cheerfully 
at  everybody ;  and  that  he  must  be  a  good  man, 
judging  from  all  appearances.  Having  listened 
to  this  opinion,  Akakiy  Akakievitch  betook 
himself  sadly  to  his  chamber  ;  and  how  he  spent 
the  night  there,  any  one  can  imagine  who  can 
put  himself  in  another’s  place.  Early  in  the 
morning,  he  presented  himself  at  the  superin¬ 
tendent’s  ;  but  they  told  him  that  he  was  asleep  : 
he  went  again  at  ten  —  and  was  again  informed 
that  he  was  asleep  :  he  went  at  eleven  o’clock  ; 
and  they  said,  “The  superintendent  is  not  at 
home  :  ”  at  dinner-time,  and  the  clerks  in  the 
ante-room  would  not  admit  him  on  any  terms, 
and  insisted  upon  knowing  his  business,  and 
what  brought  him,  and  how  it  had  come  about : 
so  that  at  last,  for  once  in  his  life,  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  felt  an  inclination  to  show  some 
spirit,  and  said  curtly  that  he  must  see  the 
superintendent  in  person  ;  that  they  should  not 
presume  to  refuse  him  entrance ;  that  he  came 
from  the  department  of  justice,  and,  when  he 
complained  of  them,  they  would  see.  The 
clerks  dared  make  no  reply  to  this,  and  one 


THE  CLOAK, 


359 


of  them  went  to  call  the  superintendent.  The 
superintendent  listened  to  the  extremely  strange 
story  of  the  theft  of  the  coat.  Instead  of  di¬ 
recting  his  attention  to  the  principal  points  of 
the  matter,  he  began  to  question  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch,  Why  did  he  return  so  late  ?  Was  he  in 
the  habit  of  going,  or  had  he  been,  to  any  dis¬ 
orderly  house  ?  so  that  Akakiy  Akakievitch  got 
thoroughly  confused,  and  left  him  without  know¬ 
ing  whether  the  affair  of  his  cloak  was  in  proper 
train,  or  not.  All  that  day  he  never  went  near 
the  court  (for  the  first  time  in  his  life).  The 
next  day  he  made  his  appearance,  very  pale,  and 
in  his  old  mantle,  which  had  become  even  more 
shabby.  The  news  of  the  robbery  of  the  cloak 
touched  many ;  although  there  were  officials 
present,  who  never  omitted  an  opportunity, 
even  the  present,  to  ridicule  Akakiy  Akakie¬ 
vitch.  They  decided  to  take  up  a  collection  for 
him  on  the  spot,  but  it  turned  out  a  mere  trifle ; 
for  the  tchinovniks  had  already  spent  a  great 
deal  in  subscribing  for  the  director's  portrait, 
and  for  some  book,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  head 
of  that  division,  who  was  a  friend  of  the  author : 
and  so  the  sum  was  trifling.  One,  moved  by 


360 


THE  CLOAK. 


pity,  resolved  to  help  Akakiy  Akakievitch  with 
some  good  advice  at  least,  and  told  him  that  he 
ought  not  to  go  to  the  captain,  for  although  it 
might  happen  that  the  police-captain,  wishing 
to  win  the  approval  of  his  superior  officers, 
might  hunt  up  the  cloak  by  some  means,  still, 
the  cloak  would  remain  in  the  possession  of  the 
police  if  he  did  not  offer  legal  proof  that  it 
belonged  to  him  :  the  best  thing  for  him  would 
be  to  apply  to  a  certain  prominent  personage ; 
that  this  pro7ninent  personage ,  by  entering  into 
relations  with  the  proper  persons,  could  greatly 
expedite  the  matter.  As  there  was  nothing  else 
to  be  done,  Akakiy  Akakievitch  decided  to  go 
to  the  prominent  personage.  What  was  the 
official  position  of  the  prominent  personage ,  re¬ 
mains  unknown  to  this  day.  The  reader  must 
know  that  the  prominent  persoiiage  had  but  re¬ 
cently  become  a  prominent  personage,  but  up  to 
that  time  he  had  been  an  insignificant  person. 
Moreover,  his  present  position  was  not  consid¬ 
ered  prominent  in  comparison  with  others  more 
prominent.  But  there  is  always  a  circle  of  peo¬ 
ple  to  whom  what  is  insignificant  in  the  eyes  of 
others,  is  always  important  enough.  Moreover, 


THE  CLOAK. 


361 


he  strove  to  increase  his  importance  by  many 
devices  ;  namely,  he  managed  to  have  the  infe¬ 
rior  officials  meet  him  on  the  staircase  when  he 
entered  upon  his  service  :  no  one  was  to  pre¬ 
sume  to  come  directly  to  him,  but  the  strictest 
etiquette  must  be  observed;  “The  Collegiate 
Recorder  ”  must  announce  to  the  government 
secretary,  the  government  secretary  to  the  tit¬ 
ular  councillor,  or  whatever  other  man  was 
proper,  and  the  business  came  before  him  in 
this  manner.  In  holy  Russia,  all  is  thus  con- 
taminated  with  the  love  of  imitation  :  each  man 
imitates  and  copies  his  superior.  They  even 
say  that  a  certain  titular  councillor,  when  pro¬ 
moted  to  the  head  of  some  little  separate  court¬ 
room,  immediately  partitioned  off  a  private  room 
for  himself,  called  it  the  Audience  Chamber ,  and 
posted  at  the  door  a  lackey  with  red  collar  and 
braid,  who  grasped  the  handle  of  the  door, 
and  opened  to  all  comers ;  though  the  audience 
chamber  would  hardly  hold  an  ordinary  writing- 
table. 

The  manners  and  customs  of  the  prominent 
personage  were  grand  and  imposing,  but  rather 
exaggerated.  The  main  foundation  of  his  sys- 


362 


THE  CLOAK. 


tem  was  strictness.  “  Strictness,  strictness, 
and  always  strictness  !  ”  he  generally  said ;  and 
at  the  last  word  he  looked  significantly  into  the 
face  of  the  person  to  whom  he  spoke.  But 
there  was  no  necessity  for  this,  for  the  half¬ 
score  of  tchinovniks  who  formed  the  entire 
force  of  the  mechanism  of  the  office  were 
properly  afraid  without  it :  on  catching  sight  of 
him  afar  off,  they  left  their  work,  and  waited, 
drawn  up  in  line,  until  their  chief  had  passed 
through  the  room.  His  ordinary  converse  with 
his  inferiors  smacked  of  sternness,  and  con¬ 
sisted  chiefly  of  three  phrases :  u  How  dare 
you?”  “  Do  you  know  to  whom  you  are  talk¬ 
ing  ?  ”  “  Do  you  realize  who  stands  before  you  ?  ” 
Otherwise  he  was  a  very  kind-hearted  man, 
good  to  his  comrades,  and  ready  to  oblige ;  but 
the  rank  of  general  threw  him  completely  off 
his  balance.  On  receiving  that  rank,  he  be¬ 
came  confused,  as  it  were,  lost  his  way,  and 
never  knew  what  to  do.  If  he  chanced  to  be 
with  his  equals,  he  was  still  a  very  nice  kind  of 
man,  —  a  very  good  fellow  in  many  respects, 
and  not  stupid  :  but  just  the  moment  that  he 
happened  to  be  in  the  society  of  people  but 


THE  CLOAK. 


363 


one  rank  lower  than  himself,  he  was  simply  in¬ 
comprehensible  ;  he  became  silent ;  and  his 
situation  aroused  sympathy,  the  more  so,  as  he 
felt  himself  that  he  might  have  made  an  in¬ 
comparably  better  use  of  the  time.  In  his 
eyes,  there  was  sometimes  visible  a  desire  to 
join  some  interesting  conversation  and  circle; 
but  he  was  held  back  by  the  thought,  Would  it 
not  be  a  very  great  condescension  on  his  part  ? 
Would  it  not  be  familiar  ?  and  would  he  not 
thereby  lose  his  importance  ?  And  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  such  reflections,  he  remained  ever  in 
the  same  dumb  state,  uttering  only  occasionally 
a  few  monosyllabic  sounds,  and  thereby  earning 
the  name  of  the  most  tiresome  of  men.  To 
this  prominent  personage,  our  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch  presented  himself,  and  that  at  the  most 
unfavorable  time,  very  inopportune  for  himself, 
though  opportune  for  the  prominent  personage. 
The  prominent  personage  was  in  his  cabinet, 
conversing  very,  very  gayly  with  a  recently 
arrived  old  acquaintance  and  companion  of  his 
childhood,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  several 
years.  At  such  a  time  it  was  announced  to 
him  that  a  person  named  Bashmatchkin  had 


364 


THE  CLOAK. 


come.  He  asked  abruptly,  “Who  is  he?”  — 
“  Some  tchinovnik,”  they  told  him.  “  Ah,  he 
can  wait!  this  is  no  time,”  said  the  important 
man.  It  must  be  remarked  here,  that  the  im¬ 
portant  man  lied  outrageously  :  he  had  said  all 
he  had  to  say  to  his  friend  long  before ;  and 
the  conversation  had  been  interspersed  for 
some  time  with  very  long  pauses,  during  which 
they  merely  slapped  each  other  on  the  leg,  and 
said,  “You  think  so,  Ivan  Abramovitch !  ” 
“Just  so,  Stepan  Varlamovitch  !  ”  Neverthe¬ 
less,  he  ordered  that  the  tchinovnik  should 
wait,  in  order  to  show  his  friend — a  man  who 
had  not  been  in  the  service  for  a  long  time, 
but  had  lived  at  home  in  the  country  —  how 
long  tchinovniks  had  to  wait  in  his  ante-room. 

At  length,  having  talked  himself  completely 
out,  and  more  than  that,  having  had  his  fill  of 
pauses,  and  smoked  a  cigar  in  a  very  comfort¬ 
able  arm-chair  with  reclining  back,  he  suddenly 
seemed  to  recollect,  and  told  the  secretary,  who 
stood  by  the  door  with  papers  of  reports, 
“Yes,  it  seems,  indeed,  that  there  is  a  tchinov¬ 
nik  standing  there.  Tell  him  that  he  may 
come  in.”  On  perceiving  Akakiy  Akakie- 


THE  CLOAK. 


365 


vitch’s  modest  mien,  and  his  worn  undress  uni¬ 
form,  he  turned  abruptly  to  him,  and  said, 
“  What  do  you  want  ?  ”  in  a  curt,  hard  voice, 
which  he  had  practised  in  his  room  in  private, 
and  before  the  looking-glass,  for  a  whole  week 
before  receiving  his  present  rank.  Akakiy 
Akakievitch,  who  already  felt  betimes  the 
proper  amount  of  fear,  became  somewhat  con¬ 
fused  :  and  as  well  as  he  could,  as  well  as  his 
tongue  would  permit,  he  explained,  with  a 
rather  more  frequent  addition  than  usual  of  the 
word  that ,  that  his  cloak  was  quite  new,  and 
had  been  stolen  in  the  most  inhuman  manner; 
that  he  had  applied  to  him,  in  order  that  he 
might,  in  some  way,  by  his  intermediation,  that 
.  .  .  he  might  enter  into  correspondence  with 
the  chief  superintendent  of  police,  and  find  the 
cloak.  For  some  inexplicable  reason,  this  con¬ 
duct  seemed  familiar  to  the  general.  “What, 
my  dear  sir!”  he  said  abruptly,  “don’t  you 
know  etiquette  ?  Where  have  you  come  to  ? 
Don’t  you  know  how  matters  are  managed? 
You  should  first  have  entered  a  complaint 
about  this  at  the  court  :  it  would  have  gone  to 
the  head  of  the  department,  to  the  chief  of  the 


366 


THE  CLOAK. 


division,  then  it  would  have  been  handed  over 
to  the  secretary,  and  the  secretary  would  have 
given  it  to  me.”  .  .  . 

“  But,  your  excellency,”  said  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch,  trying  to  collect  his  small  handful  of 
wits,  and  conscious  at  the  same  time  that  he 
was  perspiring  terribly,  “  I,  your  excellency, 
presumed  to  trouble  you  because  secretaries 
that  .  .  .  are  an  untrustworthy  race.”  .  .  . 

“What,  what,  what!”  said  the  important 
personage.  “  Where  did  you  get  such  cour¬ 
age  ?  Where  did  you  get  such  ideas  ?  What 
impudence  towards  their  chiefs  and  superiors 
has  spread  among  the  young  generation  !  ” 
The  prominent  personage  apparently  had  not 
observed  that  Akakiy  Akakievitch  was  already 
in  the  neighborhood  of  fifty.  If  he  could  be 
called  a  young  man,  then  it  must  have  been  in 
comparison  with  some  one  who  was  seventy. 
“  Do  you  know  to  whom  you  speak  ?  Do  you 
realize  who  stands  before  you  ?  Do  you  realize 
it  ?  do  you  realize  it  ?  I  ask  you !  ”  Then  he 
stamped  his  foot,  and  raised  his  voice  to  such 
a  pitch  that  it  would  have  frightened  even  a 
different  man  from  Akakiy  Akakievitch.  Aka- 


THE  CLOAK. 


367 


kiy  Akakievitch’s  senses  failed  him  ;  he  stag¬ 
gered,  trembled  in  every  limb,  and  could  not 
stand ;  if  the  porters  had  not  run  in  to  support 
him,  he  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor.  They 
carried  him  out  insensible.  But  the  prominent 
personage,  gratified  that  the  effect  should  have 
surpassed  his  expectations,  and  quite  intoxi¬ 
cated  with  the  thought  that  his  word  could  even 
deprive  a  man  of  his  senses,  glanced  sideways 
at  his  friend  in  order  to  see  how  he  looked 
upon  this,  and  perceived,  not  without  satisfac¬ 
tion,  that  his  friend  was  in  a  most  undecided 
frame  of  mind,  and  even  beginning,  on  his  side, 
to  feel  a  trifle  frightened. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  could  not  remember  how 
he  descended  the  stairs,  and  stepped  into  the 
street.  He  felt  neither  his  hands  nor  feet. 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  been  so  rated  by  any 
general,  let  alone  a  strange  one.  He  went  on 
through  the  snow-storm,  which  was  howling 
through  the  streets,  with  his  mouth  wide  open, 
slipping  off  the  sidewalk  :  the  wind,  in  Peters¬ 
burg  fashion,  flew  upon  him  from  all  quarters, 
and  through  every  cross-street.  In  a  twinkling 
it  had  blown  a  quinsy  into  his  throat,  and  he 


363 


THE  CLOAK, 


reached  home  unable  to  utter  a  word  :  his  throat 
was  all  swollen,  and  he  lay  down  on  his  bed. 
So  powerful  is  sometimes  a  good  scolding ! 
The  next  day  a  violent  fever  made  its  appear¬ 
ance.  Thanks  to  the  generous  assistance  of 
the  Petersburg  climate,  his  malady  progressed 
more  rapidly  than  could  have  been  expected : 
and  when  the  doctor  arrived,  he  found,  on  feel¬ 
ing  his  pulse,  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done, 
except  to  prescribe  a  fomentation,  merely  that 
the  sick  man  might  not  be  left  without  the 
beneficent  aid  of  medicine ;  but  at  the  same 
time,  he  predicted  his  end  in  another  thirty-six 
hours.  After  this,  he  turned  to  the  landlady, 
and  said,  “  And  as  for  you,  my  dear,  don’t  waste 
your  time  on  him  :  order  his  pine  cofifin  now,  for 
an  oak  one  will  be  too  expensive  for  him.”  Did 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  hear  these  fatal  words  ? 
and,  if  he  heard  them,  did  they  produce  any 
overwhelming  effect  upon  him  ?  Did  he  lament 
the  bitterness  of  his  life  ?  —  We  know  not,  for  he 
continued  in  a  raving,  parching  condition.  Vis¬ 
ions  incessantly  appeared  to  him,  each  stranger 
than  the  other :  now  he  saw  Petrovitch,  and 
ordered  him  to  make  a  cloak,  with  some  traps 


THE  CLOAK. 


369 


for  robbers,  who  seemed  to  him  to  be  always 
under  the  bed ;  and  he  cried,  every  moment,  to 
the  landlady  to  pull  one  robber  from  under  his 
coverlet :  then  he  inquired  why  his  old  mantle 
hung  before  him  when  he  had  a  new  cloak ; 
then  he  fancied  that  he  was  standing  before  the 
general,  listening  to  a  thorough  setting-down, 
and  saying,  “  Forgive,  your  excellency  !  ”  but  at 
last  he  began  to  curse,  uttering  the  most  hor¬ 
rible  words,  so  that  his  aged  landlady  crossed 
herself,  never  in  her  life  having  heard  any  thing 
of  the  kind  from  him  —  the  more  so,  as  those 
words  followed  directly  after  the  words  your 
excellency .  Later  he  talked  utter  nonsense,  of 
which  nothing  could  be  understood :  all  that 
was  evident,  was  that  his  incoherent  words  and 
thoughts  hovered  ever  about  one  thing,  —  his 
cloak. 

At  last  poor  Akakiy  Akakievitch  breathed 
his  last.  They  sealed  up  neither  his  room  nor 
his  effects,  because,  in  the  first  place,  there  were 
no  heirs,  and,  in  the  second,  there  was  very 
little  inheritance  ;  namely,  a  bunch  of  goose- 
quills,  a  quire  of  white  official  paper,  three  pairs 
of  socks,  two  or  three  buttons  which  had  burst 


37° 


THE  CLOAK. 


off  his  trousers,  and  the  mantle  already  known 
to  the  reader.  To  whom  all  this  fell,  God 
knows.  I  confess  that  the  person  who  told  this 
tale  took  no  interest  in  the  matter.  They  car¬ 
ried  Akakiy  Akakievitch  out,  and  buried  him. 
And  Petersburg  was  left  without  Akakiy  Akakie¬ 
vitch,  as  though  he  had  never  lived  there.  A 
being  disappeared,  and  was  hidden,  who  was 
protected  by  none,  dear  to  none,  interesting  to 
none,  who  never  even  attracted  to  himself  the 
attention  of  an  observer  of  nature,  who  omits  no 
opportunity  of  thrusting  a  pin  through  a  com¬ 
mon  fly,  and  examining  it  under  the  microscope, 
—  a  being  who  bore  meekly  the  jibes  of  the  de¬ 
partment,  and  went  to  his  grave  without  having 
done  one  unusual  deed,  but  to  whom,  neverthe¬ 
less,  at  the  close  of  his  life,  appeared  a  bright 
visitant  in  the  form  of  a  cloak,  which  momenta¬ 
rily  cheered  his  poor  life,  and  upon  whom,  there¬ 
after,  an  intolerable  misfortune  descended,  just 
as  it  descends  upon  the  heads  of  the  mighty  of 
this  world  !  .  .  .  Several  days  after  his  death, 
the  porter  was  sent  from  the  department  to  his 
lodgings,  with  an  order  for  him  to  present  him¬ 
self  immediately;  the  chief  commands  it:  but 


THE  CLOAK. 


371 


the  porter  had  to  return  unsuccessful,  with  the 
answer  that  he  could  not  come ;  and  to  the 
question,  Why  ?  he  explained  in  the  words, 
“Well,  because:  he  is  already  dead!  he  was 
buried  four  days  ago.”  In  this  manner  did  they 
hear  of  Akakiy  Akakievitch’s  death  at  the  de¬ 
partment  ;  and  the  next  day  a  new  and  much 
larger  tchinovnik  sat  in  his  place,  forming  his 
letters  by  no  means  upright,  but  more  inclined 
and  slantwise. 

But  who  could  have  imagined  that  this  was 
not  the  end  of  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  —  that  he 
was  destined  to  raise  a  commotion  after  death,  as 
if  in  compensation  for  his  utterly  insignificant 
life  ?  But  so  it  happened,  and  our  poor  story 
unexpectedly  gains  a  fantastic  ending. 

A  rumor  suddenly  spread  throughout  Peters¬ 
burg,  that  a  dead  man  had  taken  to  appearing 
on  the  Kalinkin  Bridge,  and  far  beyond,  at 
night,  in  the  form  of  a  tchinovnik  seeking  a 
stolen  cloak,  and  that,  under  the  pretext  of  its 
being  the  stolen  cloak,  he  dragged  every  one’s 
cloak  from  his  shoulders  without  regard  to  rank 
or  calling,  —  cat-skin,  beaver,  wadded,  fox,  bear, 
raccoon  coats ;  in  a  word,  every  sort  of  fur  and 


372 


THE  CLOAK. 


skin  which  men  adopted  for  their  covering. 
One  of  the  department  employes  saw  the  dead 
man  with  his  own  eyes,  and  immediately  recog¬ 
nized  in  him  Akakiy  Akakievitch  :  nevertheless, 
this  inspired  him  with  such  terror,  that  he 
started  to  run  with  all  his  might,  and  therefore 
could  not  examine  thoroughly,  and  only  saw 
how  the  latter  threatened  him  from  afar  with 
his  finger.  Constant  complaints  poured  in 
from  all  quarters,  that  the  backs  and  shoulders, 
not  only  of  titular  but  even  of  court  councillors, 
were  entirely  exposed  to  the  danger  of  a  cold, 
on  account  of  the  frequent  dragging  off  of 
their  cloaks.  Arrangements  were  made  by  the 
police  to  catch  the  corpse,  at  any  cost,  alive  or 
dead,  and  punish  him  as  an  example  to  others, 
in  the  most  severe  manner :  and  in  this  they 
nearly  succeeded ;  for  a  policeman,  on  guard  in 
Kirushkin  Alley,  caught  the  corpse  by  the  col¬ 
lar  on  the  very  scene  of  his  evil  deeds,  for 
attempting  to  pull  off  the  frieze  cloak  of  some 
retired  musician  who  had  blown  the  flute  in  his 
day.  Having  seized  him  by  the  collar,  he  sum¬ 
moned,  with  a  shout,  two  of  his  comrades,  whom 
he  enjoined  to  hold  him  fast,  while  he  himself 


THE  CLOAK. 


373 


felt  for  a  moment  in  his  boot,  in  order  to  draw 
thence  his  snuff-box,  to  refresh  his  six  times 
forever  frozen  nose ;  but  the  snuff  was  of  a 
sort  which  even  a  corpse  could  not  endure. 
The  policeman  had  no  sooner  succeeded,  hav¬ 
ing  closed  his  right  nostril  with  his  finger,  in 
holding  half  a  handful  up  to  the  left,  than  the 
corpse  sneezed  so  violently  that  he  completely 
filled  the  eyes  of  all  three.  While  they  raised 
their  fists  to  wipe  them,  the  dead  man  vanished 
utterly,  so  that  they  positively  did  not  know 
whether  they  had  actually  had  him  in  their 
hands  at  all.  Thereafter  the  watchmen  con¬ 
ceived  such  a  terror  of  dead  men,  that  they 
were  afraid  even  to  seize  the  living,  and  only 
screamed  from  a  distance,  “Hey,  there!  go 
your  way  !  ”  and  the  dead  tchinovnik  began  to 
appear,  even  beyond  the  Kalinkin  Bridge,  caus¬ 
ing  no  little  terror  to  all  timid  people. 

But  we  have  totally  neglected  that  certain 
prominent  personage ,  who  may  really  be  consid¬ 
ered  as  the  cause  of  the  fantastic  turn  taken  by 
this  true  history.  First  of  all,  justice  compels 
us  to  say,  that  after  the  departure  of  poor, 
thoroughly  annihilated  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  he 


374 


THE  CLOAK. 


felt  something  like  remorse.  Suffering  was 
unpleasant  to  him  :  his  heart  was  accessible  to 
many  good  impulses,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
his  rank  very  often  prevented  his  showing  his 
true  self.  As  soon  as  his  friend  had  left  his 
cabinet,  he  began  to  think  about  poor  Akakiy 
Akakievitch.  And  from  that  day  forth,  poor 
Akakiy  Akakievitch,  who  could  not  bear  up 
under  an  official  reprimand,  recurred  to  his 
mind  almost  every  day.  The  thought*  of  the 
latter  troubled  him  to  such  an  extent,  that  a 
week  later  he  even  resolved  to  send  an  official 
to  him,  to  learn  whether  he  really  could  assist 
him  ;  and  when  it  was  reported  to  him  that 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  had  died  suddenly  of  fever, 
he  was  startled,  listened  to  the  reproaches  of 
his  conscience,  and  was  out  of  sorts  for  the 
whole  day.  Wishing  to  divert  his  mind  in 
some  way,  and  forget  the  disagreeable  impres¬ 
sion,  he  set  out  that  evening  for  one  of  his 
friends’  houses,  where  he  found  quite  a  large 
party  assembled ;  and,  what  was  better,  nearly 
every  one  was  of  the  same  rank,  so  that  he 
need  not  feel  in  the  least  constrained.  This 
had  a  marvellous  effect  upon  his  mental  state. 


THE  CLOAK. 


375 


He  expanded,  made  himself  agreeable  in  con¬ 
versation,  charming :  in  short,  he  passed  a  de¬ 
lightful  evening.  After  supper  he  drank  a 
couple  of  glasses  of  champagne  —  not  a  bad 
recipe  for  cheerfulness,  as  every  one  knows. 
The  champagne  inclined  him  to  various  out-of- 
the-way  adventures;  and,  in  particular,  he  de¬ 
termined  not  to  go  home,  but  to  go  to  see  a 
certain  well-known  lady,  Karolina  Ivanovna, 
a  lady,  it  appears,  of  German  extraction,  with 
whom  he  felt  on  a  very  friendly  footing.  It 
must  be  mentioned  that  the  prominent  person¬ 
age  was  no  longer  a  young  man,  but  a  good 
husband,  and  respected  father  of  a  family. 
Two  sons,  one  of  whom  was  already  in  the 
service  ;  and  a  good-looking,  sixteen-year-old 
daughter,  with  a  rather  retrousse  but  pretty  little 
nose,  —  came  every  morning  to  kiss  his  hand, 
and  say,  “ Bon  jour>  papa.”  His  wife,  a  still 
fresh  and  good-looking  woman,  first  gave  him 
her  hand  to  kiss,  and  then,  reversing  the  proced¬ 
ure,  kissed  his.  But  the  prominent  personage, 
though  perfectly  satisfied  in  his  domestic  rela¬ 
tions,  considered  it  stylish  to  have  a  friend  in 
another  quarter  of  the  city.  This  friend  was 


37^ 


THE  CLOAK. 


hardly  prettier  or  younger  than  his  wife  ;  but 
there  are  such  puzzles  in  the  world,  and  it  is 
not  our  place  to  judge  them.  So  the  impor¬ 
tant  personage  descended  the  stairs,  stepped 
into  his  sleigh,  and  said  to  the  coachman,  “To 
Karolina  Ivanovna’s,”  and,  wrapping  himself 
luxuriously  in  his  warm  cloak,  found  himself  in 
that  delightful  position  than  which  a  Russian 
can  conceive  nothing  better,  which  is,  when 
you  think  of  nothing  yourself,  yet  the  thoughts 
creep  into  your  mind  of  their  own  accord,  each 
more  agreeable  than  the  other,  giving  you  no 
trouble  to  drive  them  away,  or  seek  them. 
Fully  satisfied,  he  slightly  recalled  all  the  gay 
points  of  the  evening  just  passed,  and  all  the 
mots  which  had  made  the  small  circle  laugh  : 
many  of  them  he  repeated  in  a  low  voice,  and 
found  them  quite  as  funny  as  before;  and  there¬ 
fore  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  should  laugh 
heartily  at  them.  Occasionally,  however,  he 
was  hindered  by  gusts  of  wind,  which,  com¬ 
ing  suddenly,  God  knows  whence  or  why,  cut 
his  face,  flinging  in  it  lumps  of  snow,  filling 
out  his  cloak-collar  like  a  sail,  or  suddenly 
blowing  it  over  his  head  with  supernatural 


THE  CLOAK . 


377 


force,  and  thus  causing  him  constant  trouble 
to  disentangle  himself.  Suddenly  the  impor¬ 
tant  personage  felt  some  one  clutch  him  very 
firmly  by  the  collar.  Turning  round,  he  per¬ 
ceived  a  man  of  short  stature,  in  an  old,  worn 
uniform,  and  recognized,  not  without  terror, 
Akakiy  Akakievitch.  The  tchinovnik’s  face 
was  white  as  snow,  and  looked  just  like  a 
corpse’s.  But  the  horror  of  the  important  per¬ 
sonage  transcended  all  bounds  when  he  saw 
the  dead  man’s  mouth  open,  and,  with  a  terrible 
odor  of  the  grave,  utter  the  following  remarks  : 
“Ah,  here  you  are  at  last!  I  have  you,  that 
.  .  .  by  the  collar  !  I  need  your  cloak  :  you  took 
no  trouble  about  mine,  but  reprimanded  me; 
now  give  up  your  own.”  The  pallid  prominent 
personage  almost  died.  Brave  as  he  was  in  the 
office  and  in  the  presence  of  inferiors  generally, 
and  although,  at  the  sight  of  his  manly  form 
and  appearance,  every  one  said,  “Ugh!  how 
much  character  he  has  !  ”  yet  at  this  crisis,  he, 
like  many  possessed  of  an  heroic  exterior,  ex¬ 
perienced  such  terror,  that,  not  without  cause, 
he  began  to  fear  an  attack  of  illness.  He  flung 
his  cloak  hastily  from  his  shoulders,  and 


378 


THE  CLOAK. 


shouted  to  his  coachman  in  an  unnatural  voice, 
“Home,  at  full  speed!”  The  coachman,  hear¬ 
ing  the  tone  which  is  generally  employed  at 
critical  moments,  and  even  accompanied  by 
something  much  more  tangible,  drew  his  head 
down  between  his  shoulders  in  case  of  an 
emergency,  flourished  his  knout,  and  flew  on 
like  an  arrow.  In  a  little  more  than  six  min¬ 
utes  the  prominent  personage  was  at  the 
entrance  of  his  own  house.  Pale,  thoroughly 
scared,  and  cloakless,  he  went  home  instead  of 
to  Karolina  Ivanovna’s,  got  to  his  chamber 
after  some  fashion,  and  passed  the  night  in  the 
direst  distress  ;  so  that  the  next  morning  over 
their  tea,  his  daughter  said  plainly,  “You  are 
very  pale  to-day,  papa.”  But  papa  remained 
silent,  and  said  not  a  word  to  any  one  of  what 
had  happened  to  him,  where  he  had  been,  or 
where  he  had  intended  to  go.  This  occurrence 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  him.  He  even  be¬ 
gan  to  say  less  frequently  to  the  under-officials, 
“  How  dare  you  ?  do  you  realize  who  stands 
before  you  ?”  and,  if  he  did  utter  the  words,  it 
was  after  first  having  learned  the  bearings  of 
the  matter.  But  the  most  noteworthy  point 


THE  CLOAK. 


379 


was,  that  from  that  day  the  apparition  of  the 
dead  tchinovnik  quite  ceased  to  be  seen  ;  evi¬ 
dently  the  general’s  cloak  just  fitted  his  shoul¬ 
ders  ;  at  all  events,  no  more  instances  of  his 
dragging  cloaks  from  people’s  shoulders  were 
heard  of.  But  many  active  and  apprehensive 
persons  could  by  no  means  re-assure  them¬ 
selves,  and  asserted  that  the  dead  tchinovnik 
still  showed  himself  in  distant  parts  of  the 
city.  And,  in  fact,  one  watchman  in  Kolomna 
saw  with  his  own  eyes  the  apparition  come 
from  behind  a  house  ;  but  being  rather  weak  of 
body,  —  so  much  so,  that  once  upon  a  time  an 
ordinary  full-grown  pig  running  out  of  a  private 
house  knocked  him  off  his  legs,  to  the  great 
amusement  of  the  surrounding  izvoshtchiks,1 
from  whom  he  demanded  a  groschen  apiece  for 
snuff,  as  damages,  —  being  weak,  he  dared  not 
arrest  him,  but  followed  him  in  the  dark,  until, 
at  length,  the  apparition  looked  round,  paused, 
and  inquired,  “  What  do  you  want?”  and 
showed  such  a  fist  as  you  never  see  on  living 
men.  The  watchman  said,  “  It’s  of  no  conse¬ 
quence, and  turned  back  instantly.  But  the 


1  Coachmen  (public). 


380 


THE  CLOAK. 


apparition  was  much  too  tall,  wore  huge  mus¬ 
taches,  and,  directing  its  steps  apparently 
towards  the  Obukhoff  Bridge,  disappeared  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night. 


TABLE  OF  RUSSIAN  RANKS. 


TABLE  OF  RUSSIAN  RANKS.  ( Tchins .) 


Corresponding  Ranks. 

Civil  Ranks. 

Army. 

Navy. 

Court. 

X 

Chancellor  of  the 

General  Field-mar- 

Admiral-in-Chief. 

Empire. 

shal. 

2 

Actual  Privy 

General  of  Infantry. 

Chief  Chamberlain. 

Councillor. 

General  of  Cavalry. 

Admiral. 

Chief  Steward  of 
the  Household. 
Chief  Marshal  of 
the  Court. 

Chief  Cupbearer. 

General  of  Artillery. 

3 

Privy  Councillor. 

Lieutenant-General. 

Vice-Admiral. 

Steward,  Marshal, 

Master  of  the 
Hounds. 

4 

Actual  Councillor 

Major-General. 

Rear-Admiral. 

of  State. 

5 

Councillor  of 

State. 

6 

Collegiate  Coun- 

Staff 

Colonel. 

Officers. 

Captain  of  the  1st 

Chamber-Fourrier. 

cillor. 

Rank. 

7 

Court  Councillor. 

Lieutenant-Colonel. 

Captain  of  the  2d 

•  •  •  •  •  0  • 

Rank. 

8 

Collegiate  Assess¬ 
or. 

Major. 

Captain-Lieutenant. 

Upper 

Officers. 

Court-Fourrier.1 

9 

Titular  Councillor. 

Captain  of  Infantry. 
Captain  of  Cavalry. 

Lieutenant. 

10 

Collegiate  Coun- 

Stafif-Captain. 

cillor. 

Staff-Cavalry  Cap- 

9 

tain. 

11 

Naval  Secretary. 

12 

Gove  r  n  m  e  n  t  a  1 

Lieutenant. 

Midshipman. 

Table-Decker, 

Secretary. 

Coffee  -  Bearer, 
Butter-Bearer. 

13 

Senate,  Synod, 
and  Cabinet 

Sub-Lieutenant. 

14 

Registrar. 
Collegiate  Regis- 

Ensign  of  Infantry. 

trar. 

Cornet  of  Cavalry. 

The  officers  of  the  Young  Guard,  of  the  Engineer  Corps,  and  Cadet  Corps,  have  one 
grade  over  those  of  the  line,  and  the  officers  of  the  Old  Guard  have  two,  up  to  the  rank 
of  Colonel. 

The  5th  class  of  the  Military  Hierarchy,  which  comprised  the  grades  of  Brigadier 
and  Captain-Commande r ,  has  been  abolished.  It  is  the  same  in  the  nth  class.  It 
must  also  be  observed,  that,  in  the  Imperial  Guards,  classes  7  and  8  (Lieutenant- 
Colonel  and  Major)  do  not  exist;  and  the  same  is  true  of  Major  in  the  Corps  of  Engi¬ 
neers  and  Public  Ways. 

In  the  Military  as  well  as  the  Naval  Hierarchy,  the  grades  from  14  to  7  confer  per¬ 
sonal  nobility,  and  the  superior  grades,  beginning  with  the  6th  class,  hereditary  nobility; 
while  in  the  Civil  and  other  Hierarchies,  personal  nobility  is  acquired  only  from  the  9th 
class  ( Titular  Councillor) ,  and  hereditary  nobility  only  from  the  4th  ( Actual  Coun¬ 
cillor  0/  State). 


1  In  ancient  times,  the  officer  who  assigned  the  lodgings  to  followers  of  the  Court. 

382 


COMPARATIVE  TABLE  OF  RUSSIAN  RANKS.  (Tc/uns.) 


Ranks. 


Mines. 

Learned 

Degrees. 

Head  Director  of 
Mines. 

•  •  •  • 

Director  of 
Mines. 

Chief  Surveyor 
of  Mines. 

Chief  Overseer  of 
Forges,  Sur¬ 
veyor  of  Mines. 

•  •  •  • 

•  •  •  • 

Doctor. 

Markscheider 
(Surveyor). 
Chief  Assayer. 
Overseer  of 
Forges. 

M  agister 
(Master). 

Candid  ate 
(Bache¬ 
lor). 

Assayer. 

Foreman. 

Foreman. 

Actual  Stu¬ 
dent. 

•  •  •  • 

Titles, 

1 

2 

1 

Vuisokoprevoskho- 
diteistvo.  Noble 
Excellency. 

3 

Prevoskhoditelstvo. 

Excellency. 

4 

5 

Vuisokorodie.  High 
born. 

6 

V  71  isokob  l  ago  rdd ie. 
Most  Honorable. 

7 

8 

9 

10 

Blagorddie.  Well 
born. 

11 

12 

13 

Hierarchy  of  the 
Church. 


Monastic  Priesthood. 

1.  Metropolitan. 

2.  Archbishop. 

T itle.  V u isokoPreosvy- 
ashtchenstvo .  Most 
Eminent. 

3.  Bishop. 

Title.  Preosvyash- 
tchenstvo.  Eminence. 


4.  Archimandrite. 

5.  Ahbot. 

Title.  VuisokoprcPo- 
(idbie.  Right  Rever¬ 
end. 


White  Priesthood. 

6.  Archpriest. 

T it  l  e.  V  11  isokop  repo- 

dobie.  Right  Rever¬ 
end. 

7.  Priest. 

Title.  Prepoddbie. 
Reverend. 

8.  Archdeacon. 

9.  Deacon. 


The  4th  class  of  the  Civil  Hierarchy  includes  the  titles  Attorney-General  and 
Herald-in-Chief ;  the  6th,  the  title  Councillor  of  War;  and  the  13th,  the  title 
Provincial  Secretary. 

Among  the  posts  at  court  of  the  first  rank  also  belong  Chief  Master  of  the  Horse , 
Chief  Master  of  the  Hounds ,  Chief  Master  of  Ceremonies ,  Director  of  the  Imperial 
Theatre  ;  and,  to  the  second  rank.  Master  of  the  Horse ,  Chief  Carver,  Master  of 
Ceremonies ,  as  well  as  the  posts  of  Chamberlain  and  Gentleman  of  the  Bed-chamber. 

The  grades  above  indicated  in  the  Hierarchy  of  Mines  are  preserved  only  for  those 
who  obtained  them  previous  to  1834,  that  is  to  say,  before  the  formation  of  the  Corps 
of  Mining  Engineers;  at  present,  the  employees  of  the  Department  of  Mines  are  called 
functionaries  of  such  or  such  a  class. 

The  titles  Vuisokoprevoskhoditelstvo,  Prevoskhoditelstvo ,  Vuisokorodie,  etc.,  are 
only  given  to  functionaries  who  possess  no  other.  Russian  Princes  and  Counts  have  the 
titles  of  Siyatelstvo  (Excellency);  and  Princes  of  the  Empire,  that  of  Svyetlost  (Serene 
Highness). 


383 


PRESERVATION  REVIEW 


